


Lamentatio Coelibatus (A Lamentation of Celibacy)

by CautiousCookie



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Christianity, Difficult Decisions, F/M, Four Year Gap, Heartbreak, Infidelity, Love, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Romance, Scandinavia, Season 2, Slaves, Thralls, all that fun stuff, let's pretend season 3 doesn't exist, or else this fic won't work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-05 10:10:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3116219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CautiousCookie/pseuds/CautiousCookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a crisp autumn morning, Athelstan stands on the wharves of Kattegat and watches as Ragnar returns home with his raiding party and his spoils- one of which is a terrified young woman from the Kingdom of Northumbria. Destined to become Aslaug's slave, the girl struggles to accept her new life in Scandinavia and seeks solace in Athelstan,  a fellow countryman and the only trustworthy soul in her new home. The former monk takes it upon himself to help her, but what will happen when their relationship becomes founded on more than just empathy and tests their dedication to the binding vows of their pasts? Takes place during the four year gap. **ON HIATUS**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologus (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own "Vikings", and I don't own the title of this work either; "Lamentatio Coelibatus" is a song written by the very talented neo-medieval band Corvus Corax. I may use their songs as titles for chapters throughout this work too, since I often listen to them when I write. All credit will be given where it is due. Now then, enjoy the story!

It all happened as if it were a dream. Orange flames slowly licked the thatched roofs of the village homes. The townsfolk ran aimlessly, desperate to escape the Northmen at their heels. Nearby, a woman was thrown to the ground before one of the brutes pounced on her.

Merewyn ran. She did not hear the anguished cries for help, nor the screams of newly orphaned children, nor the clash of sword blades as her people defended their home against the heathen invaders. She only saw her salvation in the distance: The parish church. Glancing up at the steeple’s cross, which reached high up into the murky grey sky, she implored God to let her reach His house unharmed.

But, God did not grant her request. Instead, He allowed Merewyn’s skirts to tangle up in her legs. He let her fall, and He let a blonde, blue-eyed warrior sweep her up in his mail-clad arms.


	2. Fortuna (Fortune)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the chapter title goes to Corvus Corax.

Autumn had descended upon Kattegat, colouring the trees brilliant oranges, reds, and yellows. Athelstan watched the hues play upon the surface of the water as he stood with Aslaug and her little son, Ubbe, on the wharf. The still surface rippled suddenly, mixing the colours together. He looked up and smiled. Ragnar’s boat had just entered the port.

Kattegat’s residents crowded the docks, waving as their men rowed in with their spoils. Athelstan stood on his toes and searched the crowd for Ragnar, but his view was obstructed by the drekkar’s head as it bobbed against the wharf. He only caught sight of his friend when he disembarked, and he was not alone.

Ragnar was holding the bound wrists of a young woman. She was dishevelled and frightened-looking, her wide green eyes drinking in the scope of her new surroundings. Her long, loose gown and shawl were familiar to Athelstan- they were the marks of an Anglo-Saxon woman. When she turned her head, her veil slipped down to her shoulders, revealing a mane of curly auburn hair. Athelstan watched her, intrigued, as Ragnar approached.

Aslaug appeared to be as stunned as he. She was very still as the pair drew nearer, clutching Ubbe protectively to her chest. Her mouth was set in a firm line, and Athelstan had an idea of why she bristled so at the sight of her husband with a captive woman.

“Good tidings, my lovely wife!” Ragnar greeted her, flashing her a toothy smile.

Aslaug glanced at the English woman in her husband’s possession. Up close, Athelstan could see the girl’s entire body quivering.

“What is this?” Ragnar’s wife demanded, arching an eyebrow.

“Glad you asked,” he replied before pulling the girl into the conversation. She stumbled and let out a small cry, probably more from surprise than pain. Addressing both Aslaug and Athelstan, Ragnar said, “This shall be the newest addition to our household.” Turning to his wife, he said, “You are very busy with the baby and other domestic affairs, and since half your entourage returned to Gotaland, I was thinking of giving her to you.”

At this, Aslaug’s face softened, and the suspicion disappeared from her eyes. The girl did not look at anyone. She merely bowed her head and whispered an inaudible prayer under her breath.

“Athelstan.”

The former monk tore his gaze from the woman and looked at Ragnar.

“She doesn’t speak our language, and she can’t understand my English. Get her name and tell her what’s going on.”

The girl raised her eyes slightly, her gaze clashing with Athelstan’s. His heart ached for the terrified creature. He remembered all too well when he was in her position, a captive in a foreign land. He did not forget how the gut-wrenching terror and uncertainty of his future nearly consumed him. He would have to choose his next words carefully. Nodding to Ragnar, he took a step closer to the young woman. She shied away from him, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair.

“Don’t be frightened,” Athelstan told her. “These people are not going to hurt you.”

The woman looked up at him. “You are English...” she breathed.

“I am. What is your name?”

She glanced at Ragnar first, and then back at Athelstan before answering, “Merewyn.”

He nodded. “I know you must have suffered, but you needn’t fear. The man who holds you now is named Ragnar Lothbrok, and the woman is his wife, Princess Aslaug. She gave him a son last winter and needs help running the household; Ragnar intends for you to be of assistance.”

She said nothing. She simply stared at him, her face as blank as an untouched sheet of vellum. Athelstan tried think of something comforting to say, but his words were drowned by Ragnar’s voice.

“Well? Does she understand?”

Athelstan turned him and gave a curt nod. “I think so. But, Ragnar…” He stepped towards him and lowered his voice, as if he were afraid the Anglo-Saxon captive would understand him. “She is very frightened and appears to be in some kind of shock. That is why she doesn’t answer me.”

“Fear not, priest. I shall take care of her,” Aslaug cut in, shifting Ubbe into the crook of her left arm. She held out her free hand. “Give me my thrall, Ragnar.”

With a little tug, Ragnar placed the girl’s wrists into his wife’s hands. Without a word, Aslaug turned and left the dock, pulling her new slave behind her. The English captive glanced back over her shoulder as she tripped over her skirts. Athelstan saw her gaze fly to his, a look of panic flashing in her eyes. He nearly cringed at the look, and his discomfort did not escape Ragnar’s notice.

“Don’t worry for her,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “She’ll be fine.”

“I know,” Athelstan muttered, watching Aslaug and the girl disappear into the crowd. “But, I know what she is feeling... I have experienced a captive’s fear too.”

Ragnar gave him a knowing look. “Yes. And now, look where you are.”

Athelstan knew he could not argue with his friend on that point. His fear of the Northmen had dissipated long ago, and he was now steward to the earl of Kattegat. The lot he had been dealt was advantageous, comfortable, and exciting.

But, he had not forseen his good fortune when he first arrived on the shores of Scandinavia. He knew that the new addition to Ragnar’s household could not predict the future either, and the look of terror on her face haunted him long after she and Aslaug had left the harbour.


	3. Sol Solo (Only Sun)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for another short chapter- I promise they will get longer. Credit for the chapter title (and the inspiration for this part) goes to Corvus Corax.

Later that night, before dinner was served, Athelstan stationed himself by the door, anticipating the guests that would feast with Ragnar in celebration of a successful raid. He was leaning against the doorjamb, scuffing the toe of his boot in the dirt, when he heard his name being called. He looked up to see Siggy hurrying towards him, her skirts bunched in her hands as if she meant to break into a run at any moment.

Athelstan straightened immediately when he saw the anxious woman’s face. “What is it?”

“It’s the new thrall,” Siggy breathed, halting before him and dropping her skirts. “The princess is having a time with her, and I think she may need your help.”

Athelstan felt his stomach twist at the mention of the girl Ragnar had hauled off the boat this morning. He had not seen the Englishwoman since they spoke on the wharf, and he had deluded himself into imagining her settling in, resting, and slowly getting used to her new surroundings. He did not anticipate there to be problems with her so soon.

“Where are they?”

“The princess' room. Go to them; I will greet any guest that arrives before your return.”

Thanking Siggy, Athelstan left his post and hurried to Aslaug’s private rooms. He found the lady of the house and the new servant girl in the bedroom. The girl- whose name was Merewyn, he remembered- was crouched in a corner, cowering with her hands raised. Aslaug was standing over her with a bewildered look on her face. In one hand, she held a pair of shears, and in the other, the heavy leather collar of a slave.

Athelstan forgot to knock, and strode into the bedroom after a quick survey from the door. “What is happening? Siggy said-”

Aslaug looked up at him, her icy blue eyes wide and her mouth parted slightly. “Help me, priest- I don’t know what to do.”

Athelstan threw a look at Merewyn, who raised her head at the sound of his voice. Her eyes shone with tears, and she let out a pathetic little hiccup. He turned back to Aslaug.  
“What exactly are you trying to do?”

Aslaug shook her head, a few blonde strands falling from her braid. “She is my thrall, and she should be recognized as such. I did not want to frighten her too badly, though, so I thought I’d give her a choice: She can either cut her hair short, or she can wear the thrall’s collar.” Ragnar’s wife shot an exasperated look at the whimpering captive. “And this is the thanks I get for being lenient.”

Athelstan pitied the girl, and prayed that in time she would learn the local language. Until then, though, it looked as though the task of translating for her was added to his list of duties. He knelt down beside Merewyn and bowed his head to look her in the eyes.

“What is it? Why are you afraid?” he asked gently.

Merewyn lowered her hands and looked from Aslaug to Athelstan. “She spoke to me sharply, and then produced a pair of shears.” Her body trembled beneath her ragged dress. “I fear she means me harm, good sir!”

Athelstan blinked. It had been a long time since anyone addressed him as “sir.” He was barely old enough for the address when he was taken captive two years ago in Lindisfarne. He shook his head and offered her his hand.

“Stand up, Merewyn. It’s all right, she means to give you a choice.”

Absently, Merewyn gripped his hand and hauled herself up. Her palm was clammy and tiny in his hand, and the immediate contact was strange, and slightly disorienting. Athelstan dropped her hand when she looked steady enough.

“What choice is she trying to give me?” she demanded, suspicion lacing her voice.

Athelstan did not answer immediately. He glanced at Aslaug, who was waiting impatiently, the shears and collar in hand.

“You have to understand,” he began, addressing Merewyn, “that you have been thrust into a new class…”

“That of a slave,” the girl said mournfully.

Athelstan did not negate her, but the tears slipping from her eyes tamped down his impulse to affirm her observation. Instead, he rushed onto the next part, the part of choice, the ability to choose a destiny, even if it was only the difference between short hair and a raw neck.

“Princess Aslaug wishes for you to choose the mark that will identify you as her… attendant from now on. Usually captives have both their hair shorn and a collar fastened about their throats, but she does not want to subject you to both marks… Do you understand?”

Merewyn shook her head in disbelief. “I choose neither. I am not a slave.”

“What’s she saying?” Aslaug demanded. “Tell her if she doesn't make a choice soon, I’ll simply force both upon her.”

Athelstan looked at Ragnar’s irritated wife and shot her a pleading look. “She is badly scared because she thought her life was in danger. Please, she has been through a trying ordeal; I will get her to come around.”

Aslaug pressed her lips into a thin line, but said nothing.

“Look,” Athelstan said to Merewyn, “these are good people, but whether you like it or not, you must make a choice. The lady is being very lenient because she sees you are frightened and feels disrespected by your refusal.”

Merewyn shook her head. “I am not a slave,” she said, her voice cracking with grief. “I shan’t yield to her! I do not want to!”

“We all must do things we do not want to do,” Athelstan told her, feeling desperate now. “I too had to endure things that I would have rather not endured. You are being given an opportunity that many slaves never get.”

She folded her arms over her breast and looked into his face, her body shaking. Somewhere in her eyes, he saw a faint realization, a hopeless acknowledgment of her fate. Clearly, his last plea had struck a chord somewhere within her. After a moment, she murmured, “Tell her that I choose the collar.”

Athelstan let go of the breath he did not realize he had been holding. He nodded and informed Aslaug of Merewyn’s choice. He stood by while the girl turned and lifted her long auburn hair for Aslaug. Ragnar’s wife discarded the shears and quickly fastened the collar around the girl’s neck. A great shudder ran through Merewyn’s body as the leather touched her skin. Once the collar was secured, Asluag looked up and said, “You may go, priest.”

Athelstan started at her voice, as if emerging from a light sleep. Giving a curt nod, he turned and left the room, but not before he saw the stricken look on Merewyn’s face. It was unlike the look she had given him this morning, when Aslaug dragged her off the wharves. She looked sadder, more hopeless than before, as if the snap of the collar had forced her to submit to her fate. It was the look of a person who was watching the sun die, never to rise again. Athelstan could still feel her eyes on his back as he left. He tried not to glance over his shoulder, not knowing what he would do if he saw those sad, pleading eyes again. Instead, he sent up a prayer to the Almighty to watch over the new thrall and help her accept where the Wheel of Fortune had dropped her.


	4. Venus, Vina, Musica (Women, Wine, Music)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, and here's Chapter 3 (or 4, if you want to count the prologue). I'd like to say thank you to FireChildSlytherin5 and Jetlagden for the kudos/comments! They are greatly appreciated :) Credit for the chapter title goes to my dearly beloved neo-medieval band, as usual. Anyway, enjoy!

Ragnar’s house was crowded by the time Athelstan had caught up on his duties. The warriors of Kattegat had gathered in their earl’s home to celebrate their victorious raid, and the atmosphere was filled with smoke and joviality. Men wore newly acquired jewelry around their necks, wrists, and fingers, and drunk deeply from freshly stolen goblets. They swapped stories about the raid, and Ragnar received more than a few toasts in his honor. Aslaug, who was sitting beside him at the head table, smiled and basked in her husband’s praise. It seemed that no one’s mood could be brought down, and the festivities swelled and strained against the walls of the house.

After Athelstan had finished his chores, he took his place at the end of the head table and thanked the servant who brought him a plate of food. He was about to pull a wad of flesh off his mutton leg when his cup rattled noisily on the table. He thrust his hand out to keep it from falling, and looked up to see Merewyn frozen over the table, a heavy pitcher hanging precariously in her delicate fingers.

Had it not been for her shocking green eyes, Athelstan would not have recognized her. The tangled, matted mess that was her hair had been combed through and pulled back into a tight braid. Without hair to hide her neck, Merewyn’s thrall collar was fully exposed, telling all who looked her way that she was a slave. No one would be able to tell she was Anglo-Saxon by her dress, though: Aslaug had fitted her into a plain woolen dress and apron with but two undecorated brooches to hold the outfit together. Athelstan suddenly felt glad that he was not there to witness this transformation.

“Forgive me, sir,” Merewyn muttered in English, dropping her gaze.

Athelstan withdrew his hand. “There is nothing to forgive; it was an accident.”

Merewyn nodded and left without further words. Athelstan watched her top off each person’s horn at the head table. When she got to Ragnar, he offered her a wide smile and said thank you. The slave did not acknowledge his friendliness, for her eyes were still downcast. Aslaug watched the exchange closely, though, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly at Ragnar.

Athelstan turned away and picked at his meal. He could not blame Aslaug for suspecting Ragnar's activity, particularly when it came to women. He could not blame her for falling either, first in love, and then pregnant. However, there were times when he wished Ragnar's first wife was still with them, and in spite of himself, he resented Aslaug slightly for Lagertha's departure.

As he ate, Athelstan reminisced about his former mistress. He smiled at the thought of her battle prowess, her fierce protectiveness, and her children’s potential. He thought about how Bjorn had threatened him with sacrifice when he was newly a slave, and how Gyda constantly defended him from her brother's attacks. Athelstan also thought about the love Ragnar and Lagaertha used to share, and although he never liked hearing their bed creak, he always felt happy for them. Those were good times. Good, normal times.

Athelstan was staring off into space when Merewyn entered his field of vision again. She was walking away from the table, shifting the pitcher so that she had a free hand to cover her mouth. When Athelstan realized she was yawning, he felt another shock of pity for her. When he first arrived in Scandinavia, he had been fortune enough to rest before being put to work; she had been taken from her home, endured countless hours on a ship, and put to work immediately after her arrival. He could not begin to imagine her exhaustion.

As Merewyn walked past the third bench from the fireplace, a ruddy-faced man thrust his hand out and struck her bottom. She jumped and froze in her tracks, but she did not turn around, even as the man laughed and elbowed his friends. She squared her shoulders and stalked away, disappearing to the back of the house. A moment later, the same man set his horn down and meander off in the same direction.

Athelstan watched the scene play out before him, and his cheeks burned with embarrassment. He glanced down the length of the table, wondering if Aslaug had seen that display of bad manners. Instead, he saw her handing Ubbe to Siggy. Ragnar had his head bowed over his meal, unaware that there was something wrong. With a sigh, Athelstan dropped his food and rose from the table.

He strode down the length of the house, greeting people hurriedly as he passed by. Apprehensively, he peeked into the bedchambers, praying that he would not find anything upsetting therein. Just as he was beginning to feel worried, he rounded the corner and found Merewyn backed up against a wall. The man who had spanked her was standing over her. 

“I cannot understand what you are saying…” she was mumbling, her gaze on the ground.

“Come with me,” the man slurred, leaning towards her. “I’ll show you how we men do here.”

Athelstan felt his cheeks flare up again, and without thinking twice, he strode over to them and called out in Norse, “I was looking for you!”

Merewyn’s head snapped up, and the drunk man turned slowly, his half-closed eyes barely registering Athelstan's presence. The latter placed himself between the pair, and though he was not touching her, he could feel Merewyn shivering.

“I am sorry,” he told the man, “but I’ve come to collect this girl.”

“No need,” the drunk said loudly, scratching his saffron-coloured beard. “I got her collected all here just fine.”

“You misunderstand,” Athelstan said, gently pushing him back. “She’s Lady Aslaug’s thrall, and she has been promised to me first.”

“Bah.” The man waved Athelstan's words away. “Give us a few minutes, man. I’ll take a little time with her, then she’s all yours.”

Athelstan glared at the man, wondering what he could say to get the idiot to leave Merewyn alone. Hastily, he grabbed the girl’s hand and said, “You’ve taken too long” before quickly leading her away. 

Without glancing back, Athelstan led Merewyn down the length of the house again and into the first bedroom they happened upon. He let go of the slave’s hand and shut the door securely behind them. When he turned around, he saw the girl staring at him with her quaking hands raised, as if she meant to lash out at him if he got too close.

“Don’t be frightened. I’m not going to do anything to you.”

“Why are we here?”

Athelstan sighed and stepped away from the door. “I lied and told that man that I had a claim on you. As long as we stay in here, no one will dare enter. You’re safe.”

Even in the dim firelight, Athelstan saw a bright shade of red colour Merewyn’s cheeks, and he immediately felt guilty. “Forgive me. I thought it was the quickest way to-”

“No, no,” she murmured, slowly lowering her hands. “I think I understand…” She looked up at him, her gaze more curious than terrified now. “You… do not wish to bed me?”

Athelstan looked away from her and shook his head, resisting the urge to cringe at her words. He glanced into the fireplace, a nearby stool, and then at the bed before realizing that he and Merewyn were standing in Ragnar and Asluag’s room. He looked back at the girl and caught her covering another yawn.

“You are very tired,” he said. “Why don't you sleep?”

She glanced at the bed behind her. “Will the lady of the house not be angry?”

“I will explain what happened,” Athelstan promised. “But, right now, I need to stay, or no one will believe my story.”

He grabbed the stool and dragged it over to the door. He settled himself down and shot the girl an apologetic look. “I know this may cause you discomfort, but it must be done like this.”

Merewyn nodded slowly. She turned around and crawled onto the layers of furs on Ragnar’s bed. Before she was settled, she glanced at Athelstan and said, “I thank you, sir, for your kindness.”

She struck a peculiar pose, half-lying on the bed in her homely dress and collar, wisps of auburn hair escaping her braid and falling around her soft face. Athelstan said nothing for a moment. He wanted to look at her, understand her, and offer her some means of comfort that might clear away the worry that marred her otherwise pretty face.

Unfortunately, he could think of nothing to say. He merely settled on telling her, “You may call me Athelstan.”


	5. Servus (Slave)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'd like to preface this chapter by saying thank you to those of you who left me kudos :) I'd also like to warn my readers that I attempted to use some Old Norse in this chapter, and the likelihood of it being completely grammatically correct are slim to none... So, if you don't speak/read/write Old Norse, just roll with it! If you do... Just roll with it! :P

Merewyn sat bolt upright. Her heart beat furiously in her chest, and she thrust her hands out in front of her, as if to stop herself from falling. A terrible sucking noise filled her ears, and she realized that it was the sound of her gasping, an intake of breath worthy of a terrible scream.

When she opened her eyes, she saw someone standing over her, ready to catch her raised fists. As the girl’s vision cleared, she recognized the woman as a servant she had seen last night: Long brown hair, green eyes, square jaw… She looked down upon Merewyn with a kind, calming gaze, and eased her hands down.

Merewyn sat up straighter and took in her surroundings. She was in a foreign room, a plain, undecorated hall with innumerable pallets lined up against the walls, where a little over a dozen girls and women lay sleeping. As she looked around, Merewyn heard the woman say something in a language that she did not understand, and with a sinking feeling in her stomach, memories of the past forty-eight hours flooded her mind: The burning houses, the boat, the fearsome warriors, the angry blonde woman, the man who had stood over her with the stench of ale on his breath-

“ _Koma_ ,” the woman said gently. Merewyn looked up and saw her rise to her feet. The gentle smile stayed as she murmured, “ _Koma. Heita Siggy.”_

Merewyn stared at her. She did not even bother trying to tell this woman that she did not understand. It was not as if anyone had listened to her in this god-forsaken place anyway.

The woman patted her breast. “ _Heita Siggy_.”

It did not take Merewyn long to understand that the woman was introducing herself. Did she want to know Mereywn’s name? The girl almost raised her hand and gave her Christian name, but caught herself just in time. Although this woman, Siggy, smiled and spoke softly, she was still one of them. Merewyn pressed her lips together and stayed silent.

After a moment, Siggy grabbed Merewyn’s elbow and gently but firmly brought her to her feet. Spouting incomprehensible jargon, the woman led her out of the servant’s quarters and down the corridor. The girl followed her without complaint, knowing it would be better not to resist these Northern women too much. Withholding her name from them was enough to contend herself with for now.

Siggy led Merewyn through the house and towards a door that looked all too familiar. When the girl saw the stag antlers adorned over the threshold, she recognized the room as the one she had been herded into last night by the Anglo-Saxon steward. She glanced over her shoulder, a thought hitting her: If she had fallen asleep in the master bedroom, then how did she wake up in the servant’s quarters?

The frigid-looking blonde woman, the princess Aslaug, was waiting in the room for them, standing by the fireplace in nothing but her shift. When Merewyn saw her, the blood in her veins ran cold. Would she be punished for falling asleep in this woman’s bed last night? The slave balked at the door, wanting more than ever to run away, but Siggy pulled her in with a little tug and stood her in front of the lady of the house.

Merewyn stood still and looked at the floor. The woman and Siggy exchanged a few words before the latter departed, leaving Merewyn all alone with her new mistress. Swallowing with a dry throat, she looked up at the woman to find her eyeing her curiously, if a little annoyed. After a beat, the woman pointed to her bed and said something in Norse.

Merewyn felt the color drain from her face. She was going to get in trouble, she knew it. Fearing the worst, she followed the blonde’s finger. There, lying neatly on the furs, was a beautiful blue dress, a belt, and an assortment of talismans and jewelry. Relief flooded Merwyn's being so quickly, she almost felt dizzy. She was to help Aslaug dress.

Nodding, Merewyn picked up the dress and helped Aslaug step into it. As she laced the dress, she glanced at the bed, wondering again who had moved her and how the kind Anglo-Saxon man had had to explain her presence to his master.

Merewyn leaned to pick up a necklace and spied the small wooden stool near the door. He had sat there last night, guarding the door, telling her to sleep. Merewyn felt an uncomfortable, stinging heat creep up her neck. She had felt so frightened, spent emotionally and physically. She was as vulnerable as young ladies come, and yet he had not taken advantage of her. Nonetheless, Merewyn felt the heat on her neck spread to her cheeks and ears when she reminded herself that she had still been in a room alone with him. What would Eborard have said...?

Lost in her thoughts, Merewyn dropped the apron she was handling, and it floated down onto the sooty floor near the fireplace. Aslaug sighed and said something to her in a spiteful tone. Suddenly aware of where she was once again, Merewyn dove for the apron and apologized profusely, frightened the woman would strike her.

"I am sorry! F-Forgive me, please-"

As soon as she straightened, Merewyn had the apron snatched out of her hands, and she watched as Aslaug tossed it aside. The woman glared at her with her icy blue eyes, and Merewyn could not help but to shiver violently. What would she do?

She stared Merewyn down without speaking, the silence crushing the girl, instilling more apprehension in her than foreign words could. Finally, Aslaug pointed to the door and muttered a single command.

Merewyn did not need to wonder about what she meant. The girl picked up her skirt- her common, homespun, scratchy skirt- and hurried out of the room. Aslaug made a point of slamming the door behind her.

The corridor was empty. Merewyn leaned against the wall and pressed her cold fingers to her burning cheeks. Questions she did not intend to confront bothered her mind: Had Eborard survived the raid? What about Tova? Was their castle still standing, or had it been raided and burnt down by these wicked Northmen?

Merewyn turned these questions over in her mind, numbly contemplating the possibilities. She almost shocked herself when she imagined her husband and her friend lying dead in the mud somewhere- Shocked, because she did not feel anything. Yes, Eborard may have had his brains bashed in and his jewelry stolen. Yes, Tova could have been raped and killed without a second thought. Did it matter anymore, now that Merewyn was here, serving as a slave to some barbarian princess?

The door before her opened, and Aslaug strode out in a clean apron, adorned with talismans and rings that Merewyn did not have time to handle before she was banished from the room. The woman gestured for Merewyn to follow her, and she obliged without hesitation.

As they walked the length of the house, Merewyn superficially observed her surroundings. This house was nothing like her castle back home. Her castle sat on a hill, heavily fortified by wooden palisades, and inside, it was beautifully adorned with tapestries, embroidery, and the shields of Eborard's family; this house was a horrendous menagerie of wooden idols, animal bones, and pelts, and it sat in the middle of the village. Merewyn wondered briefly how even barbarians could live like this.

Aslaug led her out the back door of the house and around the side, where, Merewyn had learned yesterday, the kitchen was. Seated around a large bucket were three other slaves, who were shelling peas. Asluag said something and pointed to an empty space on the bench. Merewyn looked at her in disbelief. She had never done any sort of scullion work, not even when she was a girl living in her father's castle. She opened her mouth to protest, but shut it when she recognized the unrelenting harshness in her mistress' eyes. Defeated, Merewyn sat down, grabbed a pea, and imitated the other women.

Aslaug left on swift heels, and as soon as she was gone, the three slaves began to chat quietly amongst each other. They were Norse as well, and they did not try to include Merewyn in their conversation. Merewyn told herself that she did not care and continued on with her demeaning work.

As she stared at the peas dropping into the bucket, the sound of the other women talking began to annoy her. She could not understand a word of their discourse, and she was growing very weary of the quick, jolting language of the Northmen. The only person she could understand here was the man who had saved her last night...

 _"You may call me Athelstan"_ was what he had said to her. In her language- in _their_ language- he had offered her his name. He did not snap at her, or make lewd comments about her, or talk of her as if she was not in the room. He merely took her aside, pulled her out of a frightening situation, and gave her the liberty to address him familiarly.

Merewyn looked up from her work and down the length of the longhouse. In spite of herself, she would have very much liked Athelstan to be here now. He could sit with her, and she could say his name- his good, noble Anglo-Saxon name- and he could respond in a tongue that only they knew. They could chat away in English, and no heathen, from the lowliest slave to Princess Aslaug herself, would be able to understand them.

But, such thoughts were dangerous and unproductive. Shaking her head free of thought, Merewyn bent over her work and threw herself into shelling, counting the peas as they dropped into the bucket.


	6. Doce Me (Teach Me)

It had been a few days since the feast at Ragnar’s house, and Athelstan was growing increasingly irritated with the attention he was receiving. Although no one approached him and voiced their curiosities to his face, he knew exactly what the slaves and servants had been saying to each other: Ragnar’s right-hand man finally bedded a woman.

Athelstan replayed what had happened over in his head anytime he caught someone staring or whispering behind their hands, as if to reassure himself: Merewyn had fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, and he had stayed sitting on that stool, guarding the door like a faithful hound for nearly half an hour before someone knocked on the door. He had hurried to open it and found Ragnar standing on the other side.

“This is the first time I have ever had to request permission to enter my own room,” he said. “What are you doing in here?”

Ragnar had craned his neck to peer inside. When his eyes fell on the sleeping girl in his bed, his eyes widened, and he turned to Athelstan with a questioning look. The latter had divulged the explanation for her presence in one breath. Ragnar remained silent until Athelstan stopped speaking and said, “You expect me to believe that you brought that girl”- he pointed- “in here, and you did not lie with her?”

The question had made Athelstan’s face burn. “I do,” he muttered. “You know I would do nothing like that…” He glanced over his shoulder. “Not when she’s like this…”

Ragnar scoffed and pushed his way into the room. “I know. Nearly three summers here, and you still haven’t done it.”

Athelstan told himself that drink had put such crass words in Ragnar’s mouth, but he blushed a brighter shade of red nonetheless. He watched as his friend approached the bed, stooped down, lifted Merewyn up- she did not stir at all- and made his way out of the room.

“I need you in the main hall,” he said as he swept by. “Go there and stop pretending to have sex in my room.”

It did not matter what anyone else thought, Athelstan told himself as he strode through the house, pushing the memory of that awkward conversation out of his mind. He knew what had happened. Mereywn and Ragnar could attest to it. Everyone in the household could think so lowly of his vow of celibacy, but he knew he had kept himself pure.

_Besides,_ he thought, stopping to straighten a crooked idol, _it isn’t their business, anyway._

He saw someone approaching him out of the corner of his eye. It was Ragnar, and he was wearing a smug look on his face. Athelstan knew what was coming before the earl even opened his mouth.

“You’re the talk of the household, my friend,” he said. “Everyone thinks you and that new thrall-”

“They can say what they want,” Athelstan muttered, looking away. “Nothing happened that night. Both of us know it.”

Ragnar shrugged and said, “I suppose so…” He glanced at Athelstan and offered him a sincere look, though the latter would not meet his gaze. “Whether it is true or not, it is no shame, really..." After a pause, he added, "Have you ever thought about what it would be like?”

“No,” Athelstan lied. “I made a vow of celibacy, and I have kept it for twenty-two summers; I am not going to break it now.”

“I know,” Ragnar said, sounding as if he was dealing with a stubborn child. “You do not want to anger your god… But, I want to ask you something.”

“What is it?”

“Well...” Ragnar crossed his arms and scuffed his toe into the earthen floor. “This may not help the rumours about you, but I need you to spend more time with that girl.”

Athelstan blinked. He had not spoken to Merewyn since her first night in Ragnar’s home, and the idea of having to speak with her in light of these stories made his stomach twist. “Why?”

“Aslaug says she’s a headache because she can’t understand orders or work very well with the other slaves,” Ragnar explained. “I need you to teach her our language. In fact, I’m adding it to your list of duties; without some basics, she’ll do the exact opposite of what I intended her for, and she will bother my wife.”

There was no arguing with Ragnar when he gave orders, but the new task made Athelstan nervous. Nevertheless, he nodded his assent. Ragnar clapped his friend on the shoulder as a thanks before he walked off.

Left alone in the corridor, Athelstan glanced around and tried to think of anything he had forgotten to do. He had checked the rooms, organized the servants, made sure there was food in the kitchen for dinner… The last thing left to do was this new task Ragnar had assigned to him.

 Exhaling nervously, Athelstan turned on his heel and set off to find the thrall that was causing her mistress so much grief.

*

Athelstan found Merewyn outside, at the back of the house, elbow deep in a large bucket of laundry. She and a few other slaves were working tirelessly, unbothered by the chilly wind that dashed through the courtyard. When she saw Athelstan approaching, she raised her head and immediately withdrew her hands, sending water onto a neatly folded pile of bed linens nearby.

Dropping her gaze, she curtsied quickly and waited for him to speak first. Athelstan glanced at her, and then at her companions. The girls were glancing at them from behind their buckets and clotheslines, giggling and elbowing each other. He ignored the heat creeping up his neck and turned back to Merewyn.

“Good afternoon,” he started in English.

“Good afternoon, sir- I, ah, I mean, Athelstan.”

“Can I talk to you alone?”

Merewyn nodded as she dried her hands on her damp apron, but she said nothing. They walked away from the group, and Athelstan heard one of the girls say to her friend, “There they go again!” In that moment, he was glad that Merewyn did not speak Norse.

When they were a good distance away, he stopped and said to her quickly, “I've been instructed by Ragnar to teach you his language. Once you’re finished with the laundry, will you let me tutor you?”

“He wants me to learn Norse?” Mereywn replied, practically spitting the last word. She shook her head. “It is not necessary. I can manage with English.”

It was Athelstan's turn to shake his head. “It won’t do. Aslaug said she had difficulty making you understand her. I've been given the order to teach you, and you have been given the order to learn. We must oblige.”

He looked at her drawn, unhappy face, and felt a cold wave of pity wash over him. She stared up at him and said in a broken voice, “I do not wish to learn their tongue. I want to keep my own language… I am an Anglo-Saxon, not a Northwoman.”

Athelstan heard the plea that underscored her words. He looked into her eyes, which were ringed with the shadows of fatigue, and in those dull green depths he saw himself as he had been a few years ago: A frightened innocent, alone in a strange world. What he would not have given to have someone there to guide him when he first arrived, someone to clasp his hand and tell him that everything was going to be all right, even when his world had crashed to pieces around him. It killed him to see another soul in that position.

“You are an Anglo-Saxon,” he assured her. “And, you always will be…” He gestured to himself. “I hail from the same land as you, and I have not forgotten our language. But, we need Norse to survive.”

Suddenly, she asked softly, “Where do you hail from, Athelstan?”

Another chilly gust of wind rushed past them, and Athelstan let it fill the silence as he wondered whether or not to tell her of his former home. If he told her that he lived in Lindisfarne, she might infer that he had been a monk taken captive there two years ago. He discarded the idea almost immediately. He did not want her to know. He wanted to encourage her, uplift her, and show her how to be strong. Telling her of a time of weakness would only upset her further.

“I’m from Northumbria,” he said finally. “And you?”

Merewyn looked at her hands, which were folded in front of her. “I was born in Wessex, but I was taken in Northumbria.”

“Why?” Athelstan asked before he could stop himself.

“The man I married resided in that kingdom,” she said tonelessly.

Silence fell over them as Athelstan wondered how to respond to this new information. Like him, she had lost everyone she held dear in Ragnar’s raid. But, he had not lost a spouse, and he could only imagine the pain of such a tragedy. He opened his mouth to offer her some words of condolence, but she spoke first.

“I think I would like to start my lesson now.”

Athelstan raised his eyebrows. He was surprised by her sudden change of mind, but he quickly decided it was better not to ask for her reasoning. Glancing over her shoulder, he noticed that the other slaves were nearly done the laundry. Merewyn would not be missed.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s go indoors, and we’ll begin.”


	7. Fantasia (Fantasy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! I would like to say thank you again to all you readers that gave me kudos- They, along with any comments, suggestions, and constructive criticisms, are very much appreciated :) I also apologize for the short chapter this week! It has been a busy time for me,but the next one will be much longer, I promise!

When Athelstan approached Merewyn with the intention to teach her Norse, her immediate reaction was to refuse. She had never needed another language before, and she would not comply with her captors by learning their tongue. In fact, she had sworn to herself- in a moment of stubborn self-deception- that they would have to speak English if they wanted to communicate with her.

But then, as she stood there with Athelstan, feeling chilled by the early autumn wind, a thought dawned on her: He was the only person she could trust in this godforsaken place. Whether he was reaching out to her because he had been told to or not, he was the only other Anglo-Saxon here. For days, she had laboured alone, excluded from the other slaves, wishing that she had someone to keep her company, and now it appeared that God had answered her prayers. She would merely have to pay the price and learn a bit of Norse.

For her first lesson, Merewyn learned how to say basic words that she would be using daily, such as “laundry”, “kitchen”, and “broom.” She sat on a bench with Athelstan in the deserted main hall, repeating these words over and over again until her mouth became dry. When he noticed her struggling, Athelstan rose and fetched her some ale. When he returned, he told her, “You’re doing well, but your pronunciation needs work.”

He was right. Compared to the barbarians, Merewyn had a very noticeable accent, and it made her sound juvenile, even stupid. She did not feel discouraged, though. In fact, she enjoyed it when he corrected her because he always switched to English when he did. It was comforting to hear, and in the empty hall, Merewyn could pretend that she was merely having a curious conversation with a peer in her husband’s castle.

The lessons quickly became Merewyn's favorite part of the day. She rose each day as a slave, a nameless commodity to do Aslaug's laundry, but the work was made bearable knowing that as soon as the sun began to set, she could sit down with Athelstan and pretend she was back in England. So as not to displease her tutor, Merewyn would repeat aloud the names of objects and places she had learned the night before. On one occasion, Aslaug caught the repeating the word "sweep" over and over again as she batted a broom around the bedroom. Merewyn had felt embarrassed, but her mistress merely turned her head away, as if to pretend she had not heard a single word.

A week after these lessons started, Merewyn found Athelstan in the main hall, and approached him without prompt. It had been a tiring day, and she was more than prepared to escape into the fantasy she had constructed for herself. When he saw her, he smiled and moved towards their favorite bench.

"You look eager to begin," he noted.

"I am," she admitted. "What will we do tonight?"

Athelstan did not answer her immediately, but instead observed her silently for a moment. Merewyn looked down at her hands, but not before noticing the brilliant shade of blue that coloured his eyes. She wanted to meet his gaze, take another look into the eyes of a fellow countryman, but she was unable to withstand his scrutiny.

Suddenly, he asked, "Will you tell me about your day?"

Merewyn glanced up at him. "What?"

"In Norse," he said. "Recount the things you did."

Merewyn laced her fingers tightly together. She did not want to talk about her day. She opened her mouth to say so, but Athelstan was sitting there, waiting patiently to hear her speak. Did she have a right to refuse? He was her tutor, after all. Licking her lips, she began.

"I... _sveipa_..."

"You swept?"

"Yes. I also... set the _borth._ There was much _erfithi_ today..."

Her voice was hallow as she saw her pathetic little fantasy come crashing down as she recounted her chores. She swept the hall, set the table, and did much more work than she ever had in her entire life today, and there she sat, trying to face it again with her teacher. A dull sort of ache began in her heart, as if someone was pushing the blunt end of a knife into it. This was not Eborard's castle in Northumbria. This was the house of a Viking raider in Scandinavia, and she was still a slave.

When he noticed her trailing off, Athelstan said something, but he spoke Norse, with only the slightest hint of an accent tainting his words. Merewyn turned to him, and her mouth fell open, feeling suddenly as if he had just insulted her. She dropped her gaze immediately, but the look had not escaped Athelstan's notice.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I forgot myself. It has been a long time since I spoke English."

"What did you say?" Merewyn asked, hoping she did not sound as hurt as she felt.

"I asked you what is wrong."

She fell silent once again, letting her gaze slide over to the flames that danced slowly in the central fireplace. It had been a very long time since anyone asked her what was wrong. Not even Eborard had wanted to know when she was perturbed- The last thing a wife was supposed to be to her lord was a stressor. Usually, Tova was the one who asked her why she was frowning, or why she had been crying...

"Athelstan," Merewyn murmured, "how do you say 'friend'?"

He furrowed his brow, but answered her question. "It is _vinr._ Why do you ask?"

She shook her head. "I was just thinking about one I had back... back home."

She was not supposed to be talking about this. He had asked her to recount her day, not talk about an old friend from Northumbria. The fire crackled softly as Merewyn waited for him to pull her back into the lesson. After a moment, he asked, "What was this friend's name?"

"Tova. She was my handmaiden at my husband's castle. We used to spend a lot of our time together... I only knew her for about three cycles of the moon, but she was dear to me nonetheless..."

Merewyn realized that she was speaking of her friend in the past tense, but this felt better than talking about her current situation. She glanced at Athelstan, who was sitting quietly by her side, listening intently as she spoke. She sighed heavily and said, "I do not know what became of her, though. She wasn't on the boat with me..."

The fire popped loudly. Merewyn pressed her lips together and shook her head, as if to clear it of those too-recent memories. They sat there in silence, staring into the fire, until Merewyn felt strong enough to speak again.

"Forgive me. I deviated from the lesson."

"It’s all right," Athelstan told her earnestly. He glanced at her, and Merewyn was taken aback by the intensity of his gaze. Did he understand? Could he read the terrible longing to return to her home, to normalcy, in her face?

"Try telling me," he began slowly, "the name of your husband's land."

Merewyn thought for a moment. "... _Heitir Hyllwych._ "

Nodding, Athelstan prompted her in Norse, "And is Hyllwych is in Northumbria?"

 " _Ja_ ," she replied.  

The fire flickered in the middle of the room and threw Athelstan's face into sharp relief, his cheekbones and forehead alight while shadows pooled under his eyes and chin. But his eyes seemed to dance with a kind of satisfaction that only a teacher could show to a student who had done well. His contentment warmed her, and Merewyn could not help but to smile.

"You have done well," he said. "You have just had your first full exchange in Norse."

*

Merewyn's story about Tova and the place called Hyllwych stayed with Athelstan long after their lesson had ended. As he went about his chores the next day, he could not help but to wonder about Merewyn's life before she arrived here. So far, all he knew was that she hailed from the same kingdom as him, she was married to the proprietor of Hyllwych, and she had made a friend there. Merewyn mentioned that she only knew Tova three months before the town was raided, which meant that she could not have been married to her husband for much longer.

Athelstan wondered why she chose to talk about her friend rather than her own spouse last night. It seemed strange that someone who was so desperate to talk about her old life would leave out the center of it.

There again, he thought to himself as he strode through the corridors, perhaps the memory of her husband was too painful to recall. Perhaps she was not ready to accept whatever fate had befallen him during the raid.

Athelstan peeked into one of the bedrooms to make sure it was clean when he saw Merewyn inside. She did not notice he was standing in the doorway; she merely continued to sweep the floor, her eyes glazed over as if her mind were far away. What Athelstan saw before him was just a body, the shell of a girl who had taken her thoughts elsewhere. Knowing her, they were back in England.

As he walked away, Athelstan noted that she never looked so absent, so unsettlingly _numb_ , when she practiced with him. This was the first time he saw her in such a state and it disturbed him.

When he first arrived in Scandinavia, he had coped differently. The first time Ragnar had dragged him to his home and put him to work, Athelstan had shed a few tears in solitude, thought constantly of Lindisfarne, and usually found solace by the end of the day in the Gospel of Saint John. Lagaertha and Ragnar had been as accommodating and as fair they knew how, which helped him adjust well.

But here, Merewyn was one slave in fifteen, and neither Aslaug nor Ragnar had the time to ease her into this life. The only person here who could help her, he realized, was him. No matter how sad and tired she looked when she approached him for another lesson, there was always a kind of relief that shone in her eyes. He was her last connection to her home, and she always came alive for him.

Athelstan sighed and slipped out the back door and headed to the stables. As he walked, he made a promise to himself: Whatever he could do to help Merewyn adjust, to get her to look as content as she did during her lessons all the time, he would do it.

Because he had been lucky; and she had not.


	8. Pluvia (Rain)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for taking so long... University has its pros and cons, and one of the cons is the fact that I don't always have enough time to write fanfiction... So, the updates will be slower from now on, but I will do my best! Thank you for your continued support, and enjoy the chapter!

With each passing day, Merewyn's Norse improved. She kept herself distracted while she worked, memorizing words and phrases that Athelstan had taught her. When Aslaug asked her to do something, she could now reply, "Yes, my lady" or "Yes, Princess." If she needed something, she could ask the other thralls and servants. It was all that she could do until she was able to talk to Athelstan again.

Their lessons became longer and more varied. Athelstan would often ask her to tell him something, and she usually chose to talk about life in Hyllwych. One day, Merewyn talked about her life in Wessex.

"We lived by the border," she told him in halting Norse. "My father was the… ah, 'earl'..."

" _Jarl_ ," Athelstan corrected her gently.

"Yes, he was the _jarl_ , and he sometimes... bring me to court."

Genuinely interested, Athelstan lapsed back into English. "Your father brought you to the court of King Ecbert?"

Merewyn blinked, taken aback by his sudden change of language. "Yes. I did not attend very often, only once or twice..." She frowned. "And, the last time I was there, I was with my mother. She wanted the king's permission to marry me to a Northumbrian earl."

"Your father did not arrange your marriage?" Athelstan asked tentatively.

Merewyn shook her head. "He died of apoplexy when I was about sixteen or seventeen summers. The year after he passed, my mother found me a husband."

"May your father's soul rest in peace."

"Do not look so mournful- I am glad he is with God." She grimaced and added, "I cannot imagine how he would have reacted to my being taken here. The thought of my mother worrying is difficult enough."

The walls of her escapist realm were dissolving the more she spoke. Merewyn fell silent, trying to build them back up again, but all she could see in front of her were the four corners of Ragnar Lothbrok's hall.

"Merewyn," came Athelstan's voice from a far distance.

She raised her head and he was there, close to her, looking at her. He leaned towards her, and his bright blue eyes found hers, holding her in place. She was unable to look away, though she knew his mouth was moving. He was talking to her, his voice soft and melodic, comforting, and she knew he was not trying to be a tutor now.

"I know how hard it is for you here," he was saying, almost whispering. "But you are alive. You can survive, and you must continue to do so- for your mother, and your friend, and your husband."

A painful lump formed in Merewyn's throat. She did not know if either Tova or Eborard was still alive, but it was true that her mother was still well, perhaps waiting for a letter or messenger from her daughter at that moment.

When her eyes began to sting, she closed them and bit the inside of her cheek. There would be no tears from her now. Crying for her mother would not solve anything, and it might serve to make Athelstan uncomfortable. She wanted to show him that she was strong, that she was capable of surviving this ordeal.

When she opened her eyes, she saw him still looking at her, waiting patiently as she collected herself. She offered him a little smile and said, "Thank you, Athelstan. You are a true friend."

He smiled too, and somewhere deep within her, Merewyn's stomach suddenly knotted. The ache was dull, almost something she could ignore, but it made her want to look away from him nonetheless.

"Perhaps we should stop for tonight," he murmured, glancing out the window. Merewyn looked too, and saw that the sun had completely set, and the sky was navy blue and lavender with the approaching twilight.

"All right," she agreed, rising. "I’ll be needed in the kitchen soon enough. Good night to you, Athelstan."

Before she could walk off, he rose and touched her shoulder. He looked down at her, and for the first time, she noticed how tall he was; he looked shorter, frailer, standing next to Ragnar and his entourage. But, up close, he was a good head taller than her, and his hand felt like a burning weight on her lightly-clothed shoulder.

"May God keep you," he said to her, his voice low and gentle. "Everything will be all right, I promise."

The lump in Merewyn's throat came back. She wanted to tell him that he could not promise her anything, that life was too unpredictable to make promises and expect them to be kept. By this time tomorrow, she could be sold off to a new household if her mistress willed it.

Still, the intention behind his words comforted her, and she wished with all her might that he was right. The knots in the bottom of her stomach tightened, and she gave him a grateful nod.

"I thank you."

His hand slid off her shoulder, and she hurried off.

She walked as swiftly as she could, but the slight breeze she created did not cool her cheeks. The only thing that fought off the fever and undid the knots in her gut was the slew of work she was confronted with in the kitchen. While placing food on plates, cleaning drinking horns, and serving ale, Merewyn forgot about her exchange with Athelstan for a little while.

*

The crow of a rooster woke Merewyn up early the next morning. She started when the first shrill note shot through the room, as if the damned bird was right outside the window. Then, she fell back onto her pallet and groaned, wondering if she would ever grow used to this place to sleep through it.

She closed her eyes, wishing for more sleep, but the other girls were already rising and chattering. Heaving a sigh, she kicked back her covers and rolled out of bed. As she donned a clean dress and apron, she silently prayed that there would not be a lot of work to do today.

Nightmares had disrupted her sleep, leaving her feeling more drained than usual that morning. She frowned as she pulled back her bangs and braided them behind her head. She had not had any bad dreams since coming to Scandinavia, and the visions that visited her last night were horrific: Hyllwych ablaze with fire from the pagans' torches, the bleeding bodies on the ground, the church so near, yet too far to run to...

Merewyn pushed the nightmares out of her head. Reminding herself about what happened was not going to help her. What she had to do today was her list of chores and practice her Norse. She could remember the good times in England later, when every corner had been swept and every pea had been shelled.

After slipping on her shoes, Merewyn left the slave's quarters and made her way down the length of the house and into the main hall. She was surprised to see it relatively empty. Only a few servants, and the head domestic, Siggy, were there, keeping themselves busy. Not even Athelstan was around, and he was usually the one who oversaw the servants. After a moment of observing the place, Merewyn approached Siggy.

"Hello," she began haltingly. "The man is where?"

Siggy, who was doing some needlework, looked up at her and furrowed her brow. "What?"

Merewyn could feel her confidence collapsing from underneath her. "Ah... Where the man is...?"

"Oh," Siggy laughed, setting aside her work. "You want to know where the men are?"

Not trusting herself to speak, the embarrassed girl nodded.

"They're outdoors," Siggy replied. "They are practicing their fighting."

It was Merewyn's turn to furrow her brow, for the consistent pattering on the roof had not escaped her notice. "It... rains."

Siggy nodded and rose. "Men do battle in all sorts of weather. When it rains, they practice their hardest. On a raid, they cannot simply decide not to fight if Thor decides to open the clouds and pour water onto them."

She used many terms that Merewyn was not familiar with, but the girl understood the essence of Siggy's words. Less men in the house meant there would be less people in the way of her chores, but it might also mean that she would have to clean up the mud they would track into the house. She resisted the urge to groan and nodded.

Siggy turned on her heel and led Merewyn to Aslaug's room. There, the girl helped her mistress dress, and was then promptly ordered to go to the harbour and buy basketful of fish for dinner. Armed with a wicker basket, and threatened with a beating if she tried to run away, Merewyn set out for the shore of Kattegat.

She pulled her hood up immediately after stepping outside. The rain fell easily, but it was constant and unrelenting. Thankful that the village was situated so close to the beach, she hurried down the narrow, winding street, until her feet sunk into wet sand.

The beach was surprisingly crowded on such a rainy day. There was a group of about twenty men on the shore practicing their swordsmanship, the blades of their weapons ringing out across the beach with each clash. There was a handful of fisherman pulling their boats ashore, untangling any fish that had been unlucky enough to become ensnared in their nets. Merewyn scanned the area until she saw a fat, black-haired man with two braids in his beard, fitting Aslaug's description exactly. He was kneeling on the wharf, sorting his fish into piles, and Merewyn hurriedly approached him before he could scoop them up and take them to market.

Once her basket was full with the best fish, and the gold pieces Aslaug had given her were in the fisherman's hand, Merewyn made her way back down the deck and towards the beach. As she drew nearer, she gazed at the group of men- and, dare she believe her eyes, some women?- practicing with each other.

It did not look like much fun, she thought to herself as she stepped down onto the sands. The ground was mushy and grainy, the rain was cold, and they were practicing with real weapons, not wooden ones. Still, Merewyn curiously observed the group in spite of herself as she walked back up the beach.

She recognized quite a few men from the suppers and drinking parties the master of the house liked to give: She spied the man with shoulder-length, dirty blond hair sparring with a dark, burly man. She also recognized her mistress' husband, Ragnar. He was clothed in nothing but a leather vest and trousers, and he was swinging a sword at his opponent, whose face was hidden behind a shield.

 Merewyn slowed to a halt when she saw Ragnar's opponent lower his shield and peer over the top of it. It was Athelstan.

She had never seen him look like this before. His tunic was sopping wet, and his trousers were falling out of his boots, but he did not seem to notice. His hair was pulled back out of his eyes, which were trained on Ragnar. His body was bent, poised to dodge any blows his adversary might rain down on him, yet he was perfectly still.

Then, he moved. Ragnar lunged for him, and Athelstan leapt back, flinging his shield up to block the blade. He swung his axe, aiming for his master's shoulder. Ragnar easily blocked him, pushed his shield onto Athelstan's arm, and threw him off-balance.

Merewyn heard herself suck in a breath as she saw Athelstan fall, his forearms landing in the sand as the rest of his body followed. But, he scrambled to his feet, and Ragnar allowed him to reposition himself in a ready stance, though the Anglo-Saxon did not bother to push the loose, dripping strands of hair out of his eyes.

Suddenly, as if some unseen force directed his gaze, he took his eyes of Ragnar and noticed Merewyn.

 She stood rooted to the ground as he looked at her. Through his bangs, she could see the concentration fly from his eyes, and his face immediately softened. The rain continued to fall around them, but Merewyn felt as if she had entered some liminal place, where the rain was an illusion and the beach was a trick of the eye. She stared at him as if in a trance, her heart beating loudly in her ears, her lips parting to speak though no words would form. He was beautiful, and she wanted nothing more than to look at him, praying for a moment longer with each shallow breath she took.

 And in the breadth of a second, Ragnar broke the trance, tore them both from that quiet, distant world into which they had entered by accident. With a free hand, he grabbed Athelstan by the waist, threw him down.

 Merewyn did not stay to watch the lecture she knew her tutor would receive. She pulled her cloak tighter around her body and hurried up the beach, almost breaking into a run when she reached the street again. Before long, she found her way back to the village square.

 She did not enter Ragnar's house right away. She leaned on the nearby well, trying to catch the breath that she did not realize she had lost. She looked down at the basket of fish and saw that her hand was shaking, but it was not from the cold. She raised her free hand and pressed it to her cheeks- They were scalding. Breathing in and out through her nose, she closed her eyes, and she was confronted with memories from only moments ago. In her mind, she saw Athelstan raising his shield, heard the thud of his body as it hit the sand when Ragnar threw him down...

Suddenly, a nearby shout broke her out of her reverie. Merewyn's eyes snapped open, and she looked up to see Siggy standing in the threshold of the main doors, peering out into the rain at her. She beckoned the girl to come.

 "Get inside," she called. "The cooks need those fish."

_*_

Night fell quickly, and Merewyn was barely done her chores before she had to go meet Athelstan. She had finished setting her mistress' things in order, and turned to walk out of the bedroom when she passed by the wash basin on the nearby table. Hesitating, Merewyn leaned over the bowl and looked at her reflection in the still water.

She was more of a mess than she had initially thought. The rain had made her hair frizzy, and the ends curled in peculiar directions. She also looked too pale for her liking, and the bags under her eyes made her look sick.

The girl stayed bent over the basin with one thought racing through her mind: She could not meet Athelstan like this.

She straightened and looked down at her plain, off-white dress. Not much she could do about that. She would have to make herself look presentable in other ways.

Scanning the room, she spied a little pot of red ochre on Aslaug's bedside table. Quickly, she scooped up the pot and dipped her fingers into the fine red powder. She rubbed the ochre over the apples of her cheeks, blending vigorously with her palms. When that was done, she undid her half braid and let her bangs fall to the sides of her face. She shook out her hair and combed through it with her fingers, dragging her nails from her scalp to the tips. Tucking a strand behind her ear, she looked into the basin again. A tired-looking girl stared back at her, but her hair was as free as a maiden's, and her cheeks looked rosy with youth and vitality. It would just have to do.

Merewyn slipped out of her apron and turned to leave when she stopped in her tracks. She looked down at her slight bosom and noticed the laces that held the neck of the bodice closed. Not thinking about why, Merewyn unlaced the leather and pulled the binds loose, letting the collar fall open. With that, she hurried out of the room, discarded the apron in the slave's quarters, and went to find Athelstan.

Her feet carried her quickly down the length of the house, but her knees were quivering. Still, Merewyn walked on, spine straight and chest out. She looked as if she were a baroness again, on her way to greet a noble guest, but it was not of her own volition. Her heart beat hard in her chest, and she was starting to wonder if putting the red ochre on her face was a good idea.

 It was too late to run back and wash it off, though. She was in the main hall sooner than she expected, and her tutor was standing a few feet from her. He was in deep conversation with Ragnar, so Merewyn stood off to the side and waited for them to finish. She laced her fingers together and looked down at her bodice again. Unlacing the ties had been a mistake. The skin beneath the hollow of her throat and her collarbones were barely covered. Eborard would have made her change immediately.

When she looked up, she found out it was too late to fuss with her clothing: Ragnar was gone and Athelstan was looking at her.


	9. Parvum Peccatum (A Little Sin)

Athelstan walked towards her, his eyes curious, his mouth parting. Merewyn stood tall and braced herself, not knowing why. He stopped before her and closed his mouth, as if deciding it better not to speak, before finally settling on, "You look well, Merewyn.”

Her stomach twisted when he said her name. She nodded and said, "As do you, Athelstan..." She paused before adding, "I hope you are not too tired from sparring?"

"No, no," he said quickly. He looked around the hall. "Would you like to sit?"

Clearly, discussing the incident this morning was not an option. Ignoring the disappointment creeping over her, Merewyn silently nodded. They found their favorite bench by the fire, and before an awkward silence could further descend upon them, she said in Norse, "What will we talk of?"

Athelstan grinned at her. "Very good. I'm glad you are making an effort to practice." He leaned his elbows on his knees and raised his hands, warming them by the fire. "As for our lesson," he murmured, "we can talk about whatever you'd like."

Merewyn thought for a moment. She had told Athelstan almost everything about her home in England. He knew about Tova, her parents, her childhood in Wessex... She shrugged and settled for a mundane subject.

"I had a favorite... 'horse' in Northumbria," she managed.

"The word for 'horse' is _hross_ ," Athelstan interjected. "What did it look like?"

"Grey. And she had much long tail."

 "Was she yours?"

 "Ah... No." Merewyn frowned. "My husband owned her."

An uneasy silence fell over them once again. The only noise came from a few servants working at the other end of the room, setting up the table for supper. Merewyn and Athelstan stared into the fire, the former twisting her hands nervously on her lap. Just when she thought the silence was going to suffocate her, Athelstan turned to her and asked gently, "What kind of man is your husband?"

Someone dropped a plate on the other side of the room, making Merewyn jump. Willing her beating heart to still, she answered, "I do not know. We... do not take time to us."

"You did not spend time together?"

 "No. He was very busy man, and he..." Giving up, she switched to English. "As Lord Hyllwych, he was constantly occupied with the happenings on the land, and he often attended King Aelle's court. He never brought me, though."

"Why?"

Merewyn grimaced, remembering the look on Eborard's face when she had asked him to take her last summer. He had told her, "I would sooner leave you at a brothel than take you to court." She shook her head and muttered, "He didn't think it was a place for a wife. He wanted me to stay home."

"To run the manor, I assume..." Athelstan murmured, as if to himself.

"No," Merewyn corrected him. "He left the manor in the hands of our priest when he was away. He did not consider a woman capable enough to manage the land, though my father taught me some basics... To pass the time, I often read with Tova." She chuckled mirthlessly and added, "I did nothing useful in that place... Not even bear children..."

"Oh..."

Merewyn sighed. "We had been married for nearly half a year, but I had not gotten with child... Eborard had a very particular idea of what a wife should be, namely a pure saint. If I recall correctly, I shared his bed only about six times, and after all was said and done, he would banish me from his chambers and send me back to my room."

She glared into the flames and said, "If you could have seen the look he gave me afterwards... Like he was afraid of me, or disgusted with me. He found no sin in lying with common whores, but the idea of bedding his wife made him sick. And the servants used to whisper when I wasn't looking, call me barren and frigid, but there was not much to be done when my husband would rather keep me ‘pure’ than do his job."

She sucked in a breath and exhaled loudly, trying to quell the anger rising in her bosom. She turned to Athelstan, only to see his eyes had grown twice their size and his cheeks were pink.

 "Forgive me," she blurted, feeling herself blush as well. "I realize that story is incredibly..." _Personal? Humiliating? Inappropriate?_

"It's all right," Athelstan said, though his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and said, "I am sorry that you were not respected in your home… Adultery is a terrible insult to you and your marriage."

Merewyn frowned. "And yet, I sound like a terrible woman... A wife must support and love her husband, regardless of his faults." She furrowed her brow. "But, he was always so cold and unyielding with me that I could never even begin to care for him. I do not like my husband."

The last words she spoke rang in her head. She had finally said them. For months, she had been thinking this to herself, repeating it like a prayer in her mind. At last, she had given a voice to the feelings that no one, not even Tova, knew of. And, she had spoken them to a man she had known for barely a full moon cycle. She was shocked at herself, but she felt better, lighter, as if she had discarded something to lessen the pain of a heavy load.

"I wonder..." She looked at him. "Does that make me an evil person?"

Something indecipherable played over Athelstan's face. His blush had not gone away, but his eyes were no longer wide and embarrassed. They were unsettled, and the crease between his eyebrows deepened. Merewyn opened her mouth to say something, but he spoke first.

"It doesn't make you evil," he said softly. "Any woman would feel the same way."

She continued to look at him, searching his face, when a thought entered her mind. It made her nervous, and she almost did not want to ask the question, but she feared that if she did not, it would burn a hole through both her brains and her heart.

"Athelstan, do you have a wife?”

He blinked, as if the question was unusual, and shook his head. "No, I don't," he said. "I have never been married."

 She nodded, taking the information in. It did not matter if her tutor was married or not. It was not any of her business, nor was it a question she necessarily had to ask. But, she could not deny the bothersome sense of relief that trickled into her heart like a clandestine spring. Sitting next to him, she abruptly remembered that her cheeks were covered in ochre, her hair was loose around her shoulders, and her dress was half opened, and suddenly, it all seemed worth it. He seemed worth the risks she took, but above that, he seemed worth her confidence.

And in that moment, Merewyn was terrified as much as she was comforted.

*

Supper had been served, the dishes had been cleared, and the servants and slaves had retired to their quarters before Athelstan was able to go to bed. His body was tired, but his mind was far from easy. Throughout dinner, he thought about Merewyn’s story. He thought about it and was bothered by the anger in her eyes, the way her fingernails had dug into the bench, the resentment that laced her voice like a bitter poison… Most of all, he dwelt on the sorrow in her face, the look of sad helplessness, when she asked him if she was wrong to speak of her husband so.

As he walked to his room, he thought about how he would have responded if he had stayed in England. Before becoming Ragnar’s slave, he had not had much experience with women, but Father Cuthbert had been very clear on the Church’s position: Women were dangerous, the reason for the fall of man, and they had been rightly cursed with painful childbirth and submissiveness to men. Back then, he would have thought Merewyn a selfish woman, an unsympathetic wife who ought to pray for forgiveness and be patient with her husband.

But, things had changed since he came to live with Ragnar and the rest of the Northmen. Here, he learned that women were respected as mothers, warriors, and even goddesses. They were loved, not feared, and they could divorce their husband for any reason they chose, as Lagertha had done. Athelstan had seen the strength, the dutifulness, and the helpfulness of women in Scandinavia, and as he entered his dimly lit bedroom, he decided that because of this, he could not fault Merewyn for slandering her husband.

Athelstan dressed for bed and slipped under his fur blankets. He shivered and rolled over to the other side of his bed, where the little fireplace stood in the wall. Someone had lit him a fire before curfew, and he was grateful for it. Winter was on its way, and his room was already beginning to grow cold. Snuggling down under the furs, he curled up and closed his eyes, making a mental note to get more blankets for the coming season.

Athelstan fell into the darkness behind his eyelids, willing his mind to calm and allow him to sleep, but it was not long before recent memories of the night began to run through his mind. Behind closed eyes, he saw Merwyn waiting for him. He saw the rosiness of her cheeks, as if she had just come in from the cold; he saw her auburn hair cascading down her shoulders, as free as a maiden’s; he saw that the laces of her bodice were loose, allowing the pale skin of her chest to peek out at him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the words Ragnar had spoken to him before departing that night: “She’s waiting for you- and I think she consulted Freya before she came here.”

Athelstan opened his eyes and stared into the flames. Ragnar did not know what he was talking about. Merewyn was hardly the type of woman to find comradery in Freya. The latter was the goddess of romantic love, bloody war, and unbridled sexuality; Merewyn was a frightened, nervous girl of eighteen who had about as much confidence as a newborn foal attempting to stand for the first time.

And yet, he thought as he rolled onto his back, she had done something. It was surely not by magic that her hair and clothes became unbound, or that her face suddenly regained some life in it just weeks after a terrifying introduction into a new life. Was it as Ragnar had suspected? Had she tried to beautify herself? Why?

Athelstan sighed and rolled onto his side again, firmly shutting his eyes. Even if she had made an effort to look good, what was it to him? Perhaps she was just fed up of looking like an exhausted thrall day in and day out. He could not blame her for feeling that way.

 Still, even as Athelstan felt a wave of fatigue hit him, the image of the young Englishwoman wandered through his thoughts and followed him into the numbing oblivion of sleep.

*

On the other side of the house, in the slave’s quarters, Merewyn was restless. Her fellow servants had drifted off a long time ago, yet she lay awake on her pallet, staring up at the ceiling and shivering under her blankets.

She thought about her conversation with Athelstan over and over in her mind, as if the constant replay would ease the embarrassment and fear she felt. She was starting to regret confessing her antipathy for her husband. In fact, she was starting to regret everything she did the entire night.

What demon had possessed her to tear open her dress, slander her husband, and still expect to be excused for her behavior? God would surely be angry with her committing such sins. But the worst sin of all was the fact that all day she had been thinking about another man, meanwhile her husband could have been dead in a field somewhere.

Merewyn clasped her hands together and tried to pray for forgiveness. She asked God to take pity on her: She was only a poor, flawed woman, susceptible to the charms and good looks of a man, and being so far removed from Eborard…

A pathetic little whimper escaped her lips. Her innate weakness and distance from her spouse still did not negate that fact that she had made solemn vows before God and her community; she could not break them. She realized now that she had regretted those vows since the moment she learned what kind of man Eborard was, and that scared her. She was not kind or patient enough to accept her husband as he was. She was wicked, ungrateful, unfaithful…

She flicked away a tear that rolled out of the corner of her eyes. Screwing her eyes shut, she muttered a little prayer, hoping God would give her some guidance and not judge her too harshly.

“ _Faeder ure thu the eart on heofonum; si thin nama gehalgod…_ ”

  “Shut up,” a sleepy voice hissed from the corner of the room. “Go to sleep.”

Merewyn bit her lip and suppressed a sob. She reminded herself where she was and drew in a deep breath. It would not do to cry right now. Crying had never helped her, and the Almighty might take her for a blubbering fool. 

Surely, she thought, directing her inner monologue towards God. Surely, she was not the only woman in England to feel like this. Many girls like her could not choose their husbands, but they were expected to make the union for the sake of their families. No one ever said marriage had to involve love, but Merewyn knew that it certainly helped.

She tried to remember the women she knew in happy marriages. Her mother and her father had been betrothed at young ages, yet they were lucky enough to forge a compatible friendship with one another. It was true that neither of her parents had fawned over each other like the lovers in court stories, but they got along well. Then, there was her older sister, Eadgyth, who had been married off to a wealthy baron when Merewyn had been about eleven. Eadgyth had seemed excited at first, but on a visit to their family’s home a year later, Merewyn was horrified to overhear her sister weeping about the fact that her husband had gotten a servant with child. Merewyn remembered feeling so sorry for Eadgyth that it almost hurt, but she was shocked to hear her mother’s response to her eldest daughter’s plight:

“Dry your tears and smile, you silly goose. Unlike her, you are his wife, not a toy for him to discard when he gets bored. Yes, a child resulted in that union, but a bastard at that. Your children will inherit- Take pride in your secure position!”

When Eadgyth had complained further, Mother had thrown her hands in the air and said, “If that’s how you feel, then find a courtly lover for yourself. Try the jester for all I care, just do not actually lie with whomever you choose.”

For years, Merewyn thought that was bad advice. Carry on with another man, but make sure you do not let him bed you? It sounded like adultery waiting to happen. And yet, as she lay on her pallet, in a freezing room, separated from English civilization by an entire sea, Merewyn could suddenly recognize the value in her mother’s words. What were unhappy wives supposed to do when their husbands made them feel alone and abused? It is true that the wandering eye of a woman was distasteful, but it was a lesser evil. And, as long as she kept chaste, then where was the sin?

Merewyn closed her eyes and let her mind conjure images on its own. She thought of how she had seen Athelstan today, fighting on the beach, looking more like a warrior and less like a teacher. He was handsome, she admitted, and the memory of how his body moved in the rain made her wonder what it would be like to touch him, to press her palm against the slick, bare skin of his arm, his shoulder, his chest…

She opened her eyes. The want to touch him was strong, but there she lay, refusing to get up, go find him, and lay her hands on him. On her own volition, she stayed in her bed and merely appreciated Athelstan instead of acting on her desire.

This must be what Mother had been telling Eadgyth about.

It was not so bad, Merewyn finally decided. Even if it was, what did it matter anymore? Half the world was headed for purgatory anyway…

After what seemed like a minute, Merewyn was woken up by the scuffling and murmuring of the other girls. Opening her bleary eyes, she rolled over and sleepily asked the nearest girl what was going on. Her neighbor- a lithe blonde by the name of Lauga- threw her an exasperated look and said, “We’re bathing this morning. Didn’t Siggy tell you?”

Merewyn groaned and let her head fall back onto her pillow. She recalled Siggy saying something about it yesterday, but she had barely listened. She was too distracted, too concerned with the way she reacted to watching Athelstan…

“Well, hurry up,” Lauga said, poking Merewyn in the shoulder. “The last one there has to clear away the tub!”

Sighing, Merewyn dragged herself out of bed, trying to shake off the cobwebs of sleep. Her feet pressed against the floorboards, the chill from the ground bellow attacking her soles and running up her body. Shivering, she hastily threw her blanket over her pallet and followed the rest of the thralls out the door. The gang of girls congested the doorway, and Merewyn found herself left behind to bring up the rear.

*

The fire was out by the time Athelstan woke up. The room was bathed in the cold, purple light of dawn, and the chill had crept in from the outdoors. Not wanting to get out of bed, Athelstan found his tunic, trousers, and cloak on the floor and wiggled into them from beneath his furs. Once dressed, he ran a comb through his hair, taking care to part his bangs on the sides of his face. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recalled going through the same routine at Lindisfarne. How different he was now, though. How much things had changed!

Pushing his past life from his mind, Athelstan left his room and started down the corridor. He passed two servants along the way, their long brown hair wet and the backs of their dresses damp. Seeing them, he was reminded that it was bath day, and the servants were bathing first so that they could clean the tub and heat the water for their masters' bath later. He was also reminded that they probably were not all done bathing yet. Athelstan turned on his heel and was about to walk in the other direction when he heard something strange.

It was a soft, lilting voice that fluctuated rhythmically, and it came from the hall. Someone was singing. Athelstan stopped walking and strained his ears to listen, and he was surprised to recognize the lyrics.

" _Set me free, beloved,_

_Let your heart go._

_Turn me loose, beloved_

_Take my hand, ho!_ "

Athelstan almost laughed aloud. It was an old Northumbrian ballad that he and his brothers used to recite as children when Father Cuthbert was absent. They used to laugh and elbow each other over the bawdy lyrics, and woe to any novice who was unfortunate enough to get caught singing it in earshot of the abbot. He turned back around and walked slowly in the direction of the singing, as if in a trance.

" _See the rose, my dear,_

_Its fragrance ever sweet._

_Touch the petals, love,_

_Curling in the heat._ "

The steward found himself at the entrance of the main hall, which was empty, save for the large wooden tub in the middle of the room. The singer was still in the bath, her back to him. Athelstan saw her long, auburn hair, and realized immediately that it was Merewyn. Not wanting to invade her privacy further than he already had, he made a move to leave, when suddenly, she stood up.

Rooted to the ground, paralyzed by some unseen force, Athelstan stared. As he was hidden in the shadows, Merewyn did not notice him, but she was placed directly in front of the central fire, and Athelstan could see her quite clearly. Her long auburn hair was plastered against her shoulders and back, but it was not long enough to hide her slender buttocks and thighs. He watched as she turned and stepped out of the tub. He drank in the profile of her face, the side of her small, round breast that peeked out at his from behind the arm at her side, and followed the line of her stomach down, down...

Athelstan immediately tore his gaze from her body and turned around. Shutting his eyes, he marched away from the main hall as quietly as he could. He blinked a few times, shook his head, tried to rid himself of the guilt and lust that threatened to overtake him, but Merewyn's soft, unsuspecting voice followed him down the hallway and refused to absolve him. He was trapped, seized with urges that he had learned long ago to ignore, and suddenly, it was as if the cold had been banished from the house and replaced with the hot, inspirational fires of heaven.

Or the damning flames of hell, Athelstan was unsure.


	10. Lacrimas (Tears)

That day, the house was busier than ever. It was clear that winter was on its way, and it was time to prepare for the long months of snow, scarce resources, and cold. Athelstan did not sit down once the entire day. Most of the daylight hours were spent checking the winter food supply and calculating the rations for the entire winter. He also supervised the servants and helped chop firewood. He was almost overwhelmed by how much he had to do, but even a heavy workload did not help him forget about what happened that morning.

It was not the first time Athelstan had seen a naked woman. Usually, Thyri came to mind when he let carnal thoughts get the better of him. He had not really known her, or spoken to her much before that fateful night in Uppsala, but he had liked her. He remembered how she led him away from the loud, crowded fairground and taken him into her tent. He reminisced about the way she lifted his shirt above his head, and shed her own dress like the skin of a serpent. In that moment, Athelstan had been certain that he was about to break his vow of celibacy.

But, he had not. Thyri had teased him, aroused him, let him drink her in, but she did not even press herself against him. When she was through bathing him, she had kissed him on the cheek and slipped back into her dress. Athelstan faintly recalled asking her in a stupefied voice, “Won’t you stay?”

Thyri had glanced at him and said, “I would never be so selfish as to deprive you, priest.”

Athelstan had not known what she meant back then, and he could not ask her because she left soon after. Later, he found out that those who were destined to be sacrificed were ritually bathed and aroused by a maiden because it was believed that a man needed all of his sexual energy, a vital life force, to be strong enough to journey through the afterlife.  

As he worked, Athelstan compared the two women he had encountered thus far: Whereas Thyri had been well-endowed, heavy at the bust and hip, Merewyn was slim and waifish. Thyri had long brown hair; Merewyn’s was auburn. Athelstan could look Thyri in the eye after their encounter; he was unsure whether he could even talk to Merewyn after this.

As he worked outside in the square, Athelstan channeled his anger through his ax. With each hit, each split of the log, he berated himself. Merewyn was married- _chop._ He had no right to look at another man’s wife- _chop._ He had disrespected her and her marriage- _chop._

After a few minutes of this, he tossed the ax aside and leaned against the well to take a break. He looked up into the murky grey sky as a chilly wind raked his hair back from his face. He was grateful that they would be too busy to have a lesson tonight. The guilt of watching her bathe, even for a moment, was painful, and Merwyn's presence would only exacerbate it. Looking up into the turbulent sky, he decided he should pray tonight.

And yet, even as he gazed up into Heaven, his earthly body rebelled. While Athelstan's mind tried to forget, another part of him remembered the look of the girl, how she rose from the shallow depths of the tub, the water running over her bare skin...

Biting his lip, Athelstan dropped his gaze and leaned more of his weight against the well. He crossed ankles and willed the swell between his legs to die down. This wasn't right, he told himself. She was married, for God's sake.

_But, she was beautiful..._

"Athelstan," someone called to him. Snapping his head up, the steward glanced over and saw that one of the slave boys had finished chopping his logs. "I’m finished.”

Athelstan straightened and turned towards the boy, jamming his hands into his pockets a little too quickly. "If you're done, you can take that pile inside."

"Yes, sir."

The boy hurried inside, his arms full. Athelstan glanced down at his own pile and decided they needed to be moved inside as well. Firmly pushing Merewyn from his thoughts, he unsheathed his hands, seized the splintered wood, and hurried inside.

*

Merewyn was about to collapse. After a day of constant washing, mending, sweeping, cleaning, and cooking, she was thrust into dinner service quicker than usual. Everyone had been busy that day with winter preparations, but Merewyn had hoped for at least five minutes of break before having to do dinner service. She was not used to this much work. In Hyllwych, she had been the one directing the servants and making them wait on her, but now she knew the bitterness of their work. Looking back on her life in England, she felt an acute pang of regret, thinking about what she could have done to ease her servants' burdens. Most painful of all, though, was the realization that she took Tova for granted.

Earlier that day, when Merewyn had been sewing, she was beginning to succumb to the fatigue of a busy day and a bad sleep. Losing her concentration, she pricked her fingers a few times. Each jab reminded her of how she had heaped her handmaiden with mending and only helped a little bit. But, Tova had sat by her, listening to her mistress talk as she diligently went about her work. Had Merewyn ever thanked Tova for her help or her confidence? She could not remember.

As dinner progressed, the hall became more crowded. It was not as full as it had been on Merewyn's first night in Kattegat, but many men had come to eat and drink, most of them seemingly very close to Ragnar Lothbrok. As Merewyn hurried from guest to guest, offering them ale, her stomach began to growl. But, there was no time to eat. Siggy had made it very clear that the servants and slaves had to wait until after dinner to eat tonight. There was simply too much work to be done before then.

Willing her stomach to be silent, Merewyn approached a blonde man, whom she had seen at the house a few times, and a man who stood with his back to her. She approached them and raised the jug in her hand.

" _Dryykr_?" she asked over the noise.

The blonde man shook his head, but his companion turned and looked at her. Unable to help herself, Merewyn started at the man's appearance: He was a head taller than her, lithe and nimble-looking, with a head of thinning brown hair, and two glowing eyes darkened with kohl.

She stood rooted to the spot as the tall man unfolded his long arms and bent to look at her. He put his face much too close to hers, so near that she could see where the kohl sunk into the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. She wanted to look elsewhere, even push him away, but it was as if his gaze had paralyzed her.

The strange man searched her face, his expression reminding her of a curious child, when he spoke a single word to her.

" _Thraell._ "

She blinked. He had called her a slave. Although it was true, no one had ever directly referred to her as a thrall before. She did not know how to respond.

Suddenly, he raised his hand. Merewyn flinched, thinking for a moment that he was about to fondle her, but he did no such thing. Instead, he hooked a long, calloused finger into Merewyn's collar and gave it a firm tug. The clasp dug into the back of her neck, and she cried out in surprise.

The man withdrew his finger and looked intently into her eyes, as if he were testing her reaction. She stared back at him, her mouth open in dismay. Then, he did the most absurd thing: He laughed.

It was a short, high-pitched sound, more of a snicker than anything else. A wide, toothy smile split across his face, looking terribly out of place under his pair of fearsome eyes. It was all so strange that Merewyn would have laughed as well if she did not feel so insulted.

He immediately straightened and said something to the blonde man. The latter laughed and replied in rapid Norse. It was too fast for Merewyn to understand, but she did not want to linger to try and make sense of it. Instead, she turned on her heel and marched away from the pair, her entire face burning.

Merewyn went about her rounds, trying in vain to forget the strange encounter. The painted man's voice echoed in her head. The memory of his laugh dogged her as she circled the hall, distracting her so much she nearly spilled her wine. The man whose horn she was refilling barked, "Watch your hand!" Merewyn made no response, and she walked away.

A dark mood began to settle over the girl. Coarse voices, impatient orders, and mocking words she had heard for the past month seemed to fill the hall. As she walked, the cloth of her skirts clawed at her legs. The collar around her neck felt twice as heavy as it usually did. Absently, she ran a finger along the inside of her collar, trying to remember what it felt like to be without it. Merewyn hissed as she pinched the side of her throat, where the leather had rubbed the skin raw.

The hall became blurry. The cacophony and voices became muted. Each step Merewyn took made her temples pound. Her mind raced, and her stomach lurched as she walked through the house, knowing that none of these people recognized her as a woman, but expected her to continue to work like one until she no longer could. That was her fate now. She had been made a slave, and she would die a slave.

And yet, what right had she to dwell on that prospect now? There were drinks to serve.

*

The guests stayed long into the night, and by the time the last man left, Athelstan guessed that there was about three more hours of night left until daybreak. Full of food, wine, and good humor, Ragnar approached Athelstan after the feast and said, "Why don't you go to bed? Let the slaves handle the work."

Athelstan smiled and steadied his swaying friend. "I will soon," he promised.

Ragnar gave him a knowing look, but did not say anything. He merely clapped Athelstan on the shoulder and murmured "I'm bathing and going to bed. Happy Winter Nights!"

Once he was gone, Athelstan was left alone in the great hall with only Lauga and Merewyn as company.

Despite what he had promised himself, Athelstan tried to find Merewyn during the feast. He had not seen her since that morning, and a twisted sense of curiosity and guilt still gnawed at his stomach. Some desperate voice in the back of his mind rationalized that seeing her clothed again would assuage the strange feeling and return him to a state of normalcy; however, when he spied her that night, she looked thoroughly disturbed, almost as if she was about to be sick. The absence of her blank, distant expression meant something was decidedly _not_ normal. Realizing the tragedy of the situation, Athelstan decided to hang back and ask her what was wrong.

But, she was not free to chat at the moment. She was collecting plates, drinking horns, and cups from the head table, her head bent over her work. Athelstan pretended to straighten the fireside benches, glancing up at her through strands of dark hair. He waited for his anxiety to dissipate, but his heart beat faster than it had all day.

Out of the corner of the room, Lauga strode over to Merewyn, dragging a broom behind her. Athelstan immediately dropped his gaze and moved over to the other side of the room.

"Look, I am very tired, and I still have the earl's bath to fill," Lauga was saying. "Would you mind doing my sweeping? It isn't much, I swear."

"Um... All right," Merewyn said, her voice hollow.

"Thank you!" Lauga sang, and with that, she hurried off to Ragnar and Aslaug's room.

They were the only two in the main hall now. Athelstan moved away from the fireplace and approached Merewyn at the head table. He opened his mouth to speak, but the sorry display before him stole his voice.There the girl stood, balancing a stack of plates in one hand, and holding the broom in another, her shoulders quivering under their weight. Sighing, Athelstan approached her and started to say, "Merewyn, let me help-"

But he never got a chance to help her. Merewyn, unaware of his presence, started violently and spun around. She held the broom fast, but the dishes flew from her hand and clattered onto the floor, one of the drinking horns spitting backwash onto her dress.

Both of them froze. Athelstan clamped his mouth shut, but Merewyn’s jaw dropped. Slowly, she gazed down at her stained dress, the scattered dishes, and a look of horror passed over her face.

Athelstan searched his mind, trying to think of something appropriate to say, when he noticed that as quickly as the initial shock and come over her, it transformed into something else.

Merewyn turned her head away from him, but not before he saw a single tear running down her cheek. She turned her back on him, raising her arm to her mouth to suppress a sob. He could see her ripping apart at the seams, and he did not know what to do about it.

Suddenly, Merewyn let out a short but audible sob and hurled the broom with all her might. It crashed into the head table, rattling the remaining dishes. The girl was making a terrible sound, a cross between a wail and a sob, and she tore at her hair, clumsily trying to undo the tight braid. When she failed at that, she seized the collar around her neck and frantically began to pull at it, her cries growing louder.

Athelstan abandoned the benches and dashed up to the dais, his hands reaching out for her. He heard himself saying something, words that he could barely hear himself, and suddenly he was close to her. At the sound of his voice, she turned and collapsed into him.

Athelstan nearly stumbled back down the stairs, but he caught himself- and Merewyn- in time. The breath flew from his lungs when he realized the distressed girl had fastened her arms around his waist and buried her face into his shoulder. Her miserable cries were muffled now, but it was as if he could hear them inside of his own head.

She pressed against him, held onto him for her life. He felt the tickle of her dishevelled braid against his neck, the swell of her little breasts against his chest, and the hand that clutched the back of his tunic. He smelled the sweat of a hard night’s work, and the lingering fragrance of the soap she used that morning. But above all, he felt her collar digging into his clavicle, a painful reminder that he once knelt by a lake shore and, like her,had wept the bitter tears of a new slave as well.

Lost as he was in a sea of memories, he could still hear Merewyn crying and feel the sobs racking her body. Hushing her gently, he slowly moved his hands up her back until they reached her neck. With trembling fingers, he unhooked the clasp and drew away from Merewyn slightly. When she lifted her head, he gently slid the collar off her neck and discarded it on the table.

The girl gazed up at him, barely repressing the sobs that rose up from her throat. Athelstan surveyed her silently, a troubled scowl settling over his face. It dissipated quickly when he noticed the angry red sore on the left side of her neck, where the skin had been rubbed off.

She let her head fall back onto his shoulder, her crying quieted but no less mournful than before. Athelstan let her come into his embrace again, catching her around the waist. Absently, he raised one hand and brushed his fingers lightly over the wound on her neck. Her answering hiss of pain made him snatch his hand away, and he let it fall to the small of her back.

Merewyn was saying something to herself, under her breath. Straining his ears, Athelstan heard her murmur, “A slave, that’s what I am now… There isn’t a reason to pretend anymore…”

In response to her words, Athelstan tightened his hold on her, as if to protect her from her own unhappy conclusion. Thoughts and words raced through his mind, and at that moment, he wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her of his own kidnapping and enslavement, of his sometimes painful nostalgia for England, of the fact that he could match each agonizing experience she had endured.

But, the words would not come. They stayed stuck in his throat, held back by the sound of Merewyn’s weeping. He tried to whisper to her, pressing his lips to her ear, but they merely stayed there, unmoving. He dipped his head and left a soft, fleeting kiss on the raw skin of her neck, willing it to remove some of her pain. He kissed her again, on the hollow of her ear, planting with it his memories, his story, his acknowledgement of her pain…

_Enough, enough,_ a voice in his head chastised him, and suddenly he remembered himself. He drew away from her neck and loosened his hold on her, ignoring the rising wave of guilt that threatened to overtake him. He pulled away from her and slid his hands down her arms until he caught her hands. Stepping off the dais, he began to lead her down as well.

“Come,” he said softly. “Come sit with me.”

She followed him down the steps and settled next to him on the bench opposite the thrones. As Athelstan leaned back against the wall, he felt the weight of Merewyn's head on his shoulder. When he saw that she was shivering, he shifted his weight and draped an arm over her quivering shoulders.

"Don't cry,” he whispered.

Merewyn sniffed and said, "How did we end up here, Athelstan? What did we do to make God punish us so?"

Athelstan closed his eyes and sighed. That was a question he had never been able to answer, and he had wasted countless hours trying to make sense of it. Knowing he could not give her a coherent response, he resigned himself to saying, "It is simply the way it is."

Merewyn did not reply or push the issue further. Instead, she wordlessly snaked an arm around his waist and drew in a deep breath. Relieved that she was trying to relax, Athelstan exhaled heavily and squeezed her shoulder. As she leaned against him, he gazed into the glowing embers of the fireplace, pretending to be concentrated on the dying fire and not the woman entwined in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had to bring up Thyri in this chapter, and I'd just like to say, I actually have no idea if that "ritual bath/strip tease" thing is accurate... Personally, I don't believe that Thyri and Athelstan had sex, because the scene wouldn't have been so ambiguous. So, I had to come up with a reason why they didn't do it... I don't think that's actually how real vikings prepared their male sacrifices, though, so don't quote me on it! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! :)


	11. Lingua Mendax (Lying Tongue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Thank you for being patient with me while I struggle to balance school work and leisure time, and thank you for all the kudos! They make my heart happy.  
> So, as some of you may know, the current season of "Vikings" has kind of made this fic an AU story. In light of what's happening in the series, I'd like to acknowledge that I AM going against canon, but given the direction I intended the fic to take, I'm going to have to pretend that Season 3 never happened. So, I apologize for blatantly ignoring canon, but if I don't, then this story (and its planned sequel) would not be able to exist. Just, bear with me here, okay? Okay.  
> Now then, on with the story!

Ragnar awoke much earlier than he intended to. The first pale light of dawn was sneaking into his room, and it was giving him a headache. Blinking his bleary eyes, he rolled over to see Aslaug fast asleep beside him, her mane of golden curls tussled on the pillows. The earl stretched his arms up over his head, pulled the blankets further up his wife's body, and dragged himself out of bed. After throwing on a pair of trousers, a tunic, and his boots, he left the bedroom as quietly as he could.

He made his way down the corridor, rubbing his temples. He had had a strange dream last night: He dreamt of a pack of wolves, and at the heart of the pack was a she-wolf and her four little cubs. Wolves, he knew, were powerful dream symbols, and perhaps with a bit of water and some breakfast, he could contemplate the meaning properly.

When he entered the main hall, he was surprised to see that it was already occupied. On the bench opposite the thrones sat Athelstan, his head dropped back against the wall and his mouth opened, snoring softly. Upon his shoulder leaned Aslaug's thrall, Merewyn. Ragnar surveyed them for a moment, almost laughing aloud when he noticed that Merewyn's hand lay dangerously high upon Athelstan's leg. Clearing his throat, Ragnar strode further into the hall, and called out in his best English, "Good morning!"

Merewyn’s eyes flew open. Slowly, she lifted her head, blinking, and Athelstan rolled his head forwards, wincing at the pain in his neck. They glanced at each other, and Merewyn snatched her hand away from Athelstan’s leg immediately. Without a word to her bedmate, she leapt off the bench and curtsied before Ragnar.

 “Master! I am sorry.” Her voice cracked. “I forgot dishes and sweeping the night last…”

Ragnar noticed that apart from her tousled hair, there was something wrong with the slave girl’s appearance. Her eyes were very swollen, and her nose was as red as a cherry. Had she been crying?

 “I clean up.” Merewynmade a move towards the table, but Ragnar raised his hand and froze the girl in her tracks. He let his eyes fall on Athelstan, who was wearing the expression of a guilty child.

“Do not concern yourself with it now,” Ragnar said to the girl, his voice gentle. “But, I believe my wife needs some breakfast.”

The flustered slave curtsied again, muttered, “Yes, Master”, and hurried out of the hall.

When she was gone, Athelstan was left sitting by his lonesome on the bench, and Ragnar continued to eye him, hoping in vain for an explanation. Instead, Athelstan merely rose to his feet, rubbed the early morning chill out of his arms, and began to rekindle the fire. He did not look at Ragnar the entire time.

"When are you going to stop pretending?" the latter finally asked.

Athelstan glanced up at him, opened his mouth to respond, and then closed it again. Sighing, he dropped the poker and faced Ragnar, a troubled look passing over his face. "I'm not pretending to anything."

“Everyone in this household can see that you and that girl share something," Ragnar retorted.

Athelstan glanced down at his feet, a scowl pulling his brows together. When he did not say anything, Ragnar ventured, "What happened here last night?"

"She was upset," the steward said quickly.

"Why?”

"She misses England."

This was not the entire story, and Ragnar knew it. Athelstan’s avoidance of the topic was frustrating, almost infuriating, but the earl tried to maintain his patience. He knew he was treading dangerous ground.

“If you like her,” he said, “you should take her.”

Athelstan took his eyes off of Ragnar and stared off into the distance for a moment. At length, he finally turned back to him and said, “She’s married.”

Ragnar scowled. “Not anymore. Her husband is probably dead.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Athelstan muttered. “She’s sworn before God to another man.”

The whole thing was ridiculous to Ragnar. But, he reminded himself, both Athelstan and the slave girl were from another world, a world in which women were trapped by the bonds of marriage and the courage to break free was regarded as shameful. Before he could stop it, an image of Lagertha invaded his mind. Quickly shoving the thought away, he prodded his steward further.

“It’s a shame your god does not approve, because she clearly feels something for you.”

“You’re right,” Athelstan said wryly. “Companionship and comradery, most likely.”

Ragnar could have hit him. Rubbing his temples, he muttered, “I don’t want to play games with you right now. It’s too early for this.”

“Why are you awake, then?” Athelstan demanded.

“I don’t know,” Ragnar said, seating himself by the fire. “Perhaps it was that dream…”

*

Merewyn hurried down the corridor, balancing a tray of warm milk and bread in her hands. As she made her way towards Aslaug’s room, she tried to blink away the sleepy fog that lingered in her mind. She did not want to appear a total mess before the princess.

Shifting the tray in her hand, Merewyn knocked lightly on the bedroom door, and waited until she heard Aslaug gently bade her come in. When she entered, she saw her mistress sitting up in bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows, nursing Ubbe. Her icy blue eyes were rimmed with shadows, and her cheeks looked hollow. Clearly, it had been a late night for everyone.

“I did not expect to take my breakfast in bed,” Aslaug murmured, sounding surprised.

“The earl orders it,” Merewyn said. She set the tray gently upon the princess’ lap.

Aslaug chuckled. “And I thought you did this out of the goodness of your heart.”

Merewyn looked up at her, her heart stopping for a moment. When Aslaug saw the girl’s expression, her face fell. “It was only a jest.”

Feeling worse than she did before, Merewyn straightened and said, “I am sorry, mistress. I am…” She glanced down at her feet. “I am not me today.”

Aslaug shifted Ubbe in her arms eyed her. “Did you sleep well last night?”

The slave shook her head, trying not to think about why she was exhausted. It was not the time to dwell on the memories of last night.

Ubbe cooed softly and began to wiggle against Aslaug's chest. Smiling dotingly, she carefully lifted him and placed him gently beside her on the bed. With her attention on the baby, the princess said, "There isn't much work to do today, and we are all in need of a rest. You may go sleep, girl."

"In the slave's quarters?" Merewyn blurted before she could stop herself.

Aslaug glanced up at her, and for the first time since Merewyn arrived in Kattegat, her mistress offered her a small but genuine smile. "You may sleep wherever you'd like."

There was something deeply unsettling about the way Aslaug looked at her, and in that moment, Merewyn knew that she knew. _How_ the princess knew where her slave had spent the night, and in whose company, remained a mystery to Merewyn, though.

After leaving Aslaug to her breakfast, Merewyn realized, as she walked down the corridor, that to get to the slave's quarters, she would have to pass through the main hall first. Athelstan may have been working there. Her stomach lurched at the thought, and she came to an abrupt halt. She pressed her hand against her abdomen, trying to maintain control while her entire body buzzed with excitement, and her heart fluttered incessantly like a caged bird. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. Moaning, she let herself fall against the wall and covered her eyes.

She tried to remember her mother's words- _"Do not actually lie with whomever you choose."_ She tried to conjure up an image of Eborard, her last memory of him before the raid on Hyllwych: Standing in the keep of his castle, with his long blonde hair, brown eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard...

But, it was no use. Although she held Eborard's image in her mind, she could still feel Athelstan's arms around her, smell the scent of fire and smoke in his clothes, hear his soft voice in her ear...

The forlorn girl dropped her hands and opened her eyes, frowning at the wall across from her. Why had her mother not warned her daughters that keeping chaste around men was difficult? Merewyn had been dealing with her feelings appropriately before last night... But then, she broke down and gave into her emotions. She gave into _him_.

And yet, even in her torment, Merewyn sighed with contentment as she remembered the feeling of her collar being lifted from her neck. She let her head fall back against the wall, retracing the areas on her neck where Athelstan had kissed her. How soft, how gentle, how _hesitant_ he was... The poor man only wanted to comfort, but he had no idea what he had done to her. Merewyn sighed and hugged her arms. She wanted him. More than anything else, she wanted him now.

" _Gothan morgun!_ ”

A loud voice shattered the heavy solitude of the hallway and wrenched Merewyn out of her thoughts. She turned and saw Lauga and another servant making their way down the corridor.

"What are you doing here alone?" Lauga demanded, slowing to a halt. "We have the morning off. Get back to the room, or someone might grab you for kitchen duty."

"I know," Merewyn said. "The princess tells me to sleep."

"It certainly does not look like you did any of that last night," Lauga noted, unabashedly scrutinizing Merewyn's face. "You look dead."

The two girls tittered, and Merewyn forced herself to laugh as well. She was irritated that everyone kept noticing her fatigue, but she did not have the energy to pick a fight right now.

"I bet the priest kept you up, did he not?" the other servant chirped, and Lauga stifled a laugh behind her palm. Merewyn stared at them.

"The... priest?" she asked.

“Yes!”

"What priest?"

"Athelstan?" Lauga said, cocking an eyebrow. "The one you keep running off with every evening?"

It was Merewyn's turn to scowl. The girls giggled amongst each other, but she did not find anything about it funny. Why were they referring to Athelstan as a priest? Was this a household joke that she had not been let in on yet?

"What's the matter?" Lauga asked, her face falling. "Why are you so solemn?"

"Wait," Merewyn interjected, holding up her hand. "Why do you call him priest?"

The slaves looked at her as if she had just asked them what colour the sky was. "Because that is what he is," Lauga said. "I thought you would know that. Didn't he tell you about his temple at Lindisbahn? Everyone knows that story."

"Lindisbahn?" Merewyn repeated. Suddenly, a realization dawned on her, and she demanded, "You mean Lindisfarne?"

Lauga and her friend exchanged scandalized expressions, and the servant asked, "He never told you?"

A terrible feeling had taken root in Merewyn's stomach, as if the floor was falling out from under her. The last time she had heard about the holy island of Lindisfarne was two years ago, when a band of Northmen landed there and ravished its only monastery. The entire place burnt down, and the monks therein were either murdered or taken away...

“We’re going to bed,” Lauga announced when Merewyn did not say anything more. Sweeping past the stunned young woman, she added, “Say hello to the _priest_ for us, won’t you?”

With that, the girls disappeared down the hallway. Merewyn stood motionless, trying to sort out this new information. She thought back to the endless conversations she and Athelstan had had, and she realized that he never once spoke about his own past. He had merely told her that he was from Northumbria.

A sickening sense of foreboding washed over her. She was exhausted and confused, but she knew her mind could not rest until she got some answers. Picking up her skirts, Merewyn sped down the corridor and into the main hall.

Athelstan was nowhere to be seen, but she did not stop to ask any of the servants where he was. Instead, she threw open the front doors and dashed into the frigid Scandinavian morning, ignoring the surprised cries from the servants inside.

The day was grey and cold, and a thin layer of snow blanketed the village. Ignoring the biting wind, Merewyn raced around the side of the house and ran into the courtyard. There, the silos were being topped up by a few servants with Athelstan serving as their foreman. When he heard her approaching footsteps, he turned around and hurried over to her. 

“Merewyn, what are you doing out here without a cloak?” he asked. He raised his hands, and for a breathless moment, Mereywn thought he was going to embrace her like he did last night. But, he seemed to have caught himself in time and dropped his arms, opting to frown at her instead.

Trying not to shiver, she said, “I wanted to say thank you. I left so quickly this morning, and I did not show my appreciation for what you did for me l-last night.”

Athelstan’s face softened at her words, and he nodded. “Are you well now?”

“I’m better, yes,” she lied, and cursed herself when her teeth began to chatter. Her discomfort did not escape the steward’s notice.

“You are cold,” he said. “Please, go inside, before you freeze.”

“I will, but I wanted to ask you something,” Merewyn said urgently.

Anxiety gnawed at her stomach. She clasped her hands together and waited as Athelstan glanced back at the silos. Finally, he assented and said, “Let’s go inside.”

The two of them slipped into the antechamber through the back door. Merewyn could still see the mist of her breath, but she was glad to be out of the wind. Athelstan shut the door behind them and turned to look at her.

"What is it?" he asked.

He was so concerned, so unassuming, it almost hurt Merewyn to look at him. Casting her gaze to the ground, she stammered, "Th-there's something I need to know. I... Ah, it's just..."

This was coming out all wrong. Without looking up, Merewyn closed her mouth, drew in a deep breath, and forced herself to say, "Why do the heathens here call you a priest?"

Silence fell, her words hanging in the air. She could feel Athelstan's eyes upon her, feel his surprise from such a question. When he did not answer, Merewyn summoned her courage and looked up at him. Her heart twisted when her gaze clashed with his, the agonized expression on his face tearing at her like a tempestuous wind. The familiar feeling of sorrow began to bubble in her chest, but she fought to keep it down.

"Athelstan, what aren't you telling me?" she whispered.

Slowly, his lips parted, but the words did not come fast enough. Unable to help herself, Merewyn demanded, "Are you from Lindisfarne?"

Exhaling softly, Athelstan nodded. "Yes."

"Were you... Did you stay at the monastery there?"

"... Yes."

"Then," Merewyn concluded, "you were a monk?"

He had not taken his eyes off of her the whole time. He held a certain power over her, refusing to let her look away or leave. But, nothing could stop the sinking of her heart when he barely nodded his head.

With her suspicions confirmed, Merewyn was surprised that she did not feel more upset. The house did not collapse in on itself, the mountains did not tumble down, and the earth did not open up. She merely stood there and listened with a dull sort of horror as Athelstan explained himself.

"Before I was brought here," he said, "I lived as a monk at Lindisfarne. It was Ragnar and his men that raided the monastery, and I was spared because I could speak their language."

"A proper monastic...?" Merewyn murmured, and though she was asking herself, Athelstan answered her.

"I was."

"And now?" she asked. "What are you now?"

The question came out harsher than she intended it to, and she did not miss the hurt that skittered across his face. She stood perfectly still, waiting, praying that his answer might thaw the numbness that had taken hold of her.

He stared blankly at her, like a deer paralyzed in trajectory of a hunter's arrow. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Slowly, her self-control began to give way. His answers to her questions began to sink into her mind, creating within her a rush of dizziness so strong it was as if the walls _were_ going to collapse in on themselves. Lowering her gaze, Merewyn breathed shallowly and fought to keep her balance. Countless questions raced through her mind, but she did not think to give them a voice. She was not _capable_ of asking them, now.

"Merewyn-" Athelstan began.

"I have to go," she said shakily. "I can't s-stay- I can't..."

It was futile to come up with an excuse. Before she could change her mind, Merewyn turned on her heel and left the antechamber, almost running through the doorway that separated the back of the house from the main living space.

As she hurried through the house, she could feel the mountains begin to creak and the earth rumble threateningly beneath her feet. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the admonishing words of sermons past threatened to overtake her. Fearing she was about to go mad, she slipped into the first empty room that she saw and shut the door forcefully. Once she was alone, she pressed her palm against her mouth and screamed.

The screams were muffled, but they tore at her throat nonetheless. She sucked in a breath through her nose and cried out, again and again, until she had no more energy. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

_God in Heaven, what have I done!?_

She was an adulterer now. She had become hopelessly attracted to a man who was neither her husband nor a free man. She had exposed her body and made herself inappropriately _vulnerable_ for one of God's monks. And, he had not deigned to tell her of his true calling.

Merewyn bit her lip and raked the stray hairs out of her eyes. He was a false man, she told herself. He had lied to her, seduced her, tricked her into thinking he was something else. This was all his fault. He was the reason she was being unfaithful to Eborard.

And, even as she repeated these things to herself, Merewyn knew them to be untrue. She exhaled loudly and stared out the single window in the entire room, watching the snow fall lightly outside. Athelstan was neither a heartless seducer nor the reason for her straying; she had done this to herself. She had not seen a teacher, a steward, or a warrior in Athelstan, but a compassionate soul who had helped her in her time of need. She saw in him a kind and gentle friend, and she had pursued a connection with him.

Merewyn swallowed over the lump in her throat and let two tears escape from her eyes. Even now that she knew he was a monk, she could not sincerely call him a friend. That word did not suit her feelings anymore. He was something greater to her now, something that even the implications of ecclesiasticism could not ward off…

Suddenly, the door swung open. Merewyn spun around to see Princess Aslaug standing there, her hand on the wrought iron handle. Her face was taught with annoyance, and Merewyn was certain that her mistress could see the tear tracts that stained her cheeks.

Before Merewyn could excuse herself, Aslaug motioned for her to leave. “Out,” she said.

The slave girl hurried passed her mistress and nearly left her standing in the doorway, but Aslaug’s fingers curled around Merewyn’s wrist, stopping her in her tracks. Without a word, Aslaug led the girl down the length of the house and back into her own quarters. Merewyn stumbled over the furs that carpeted the floor but did not dare to ask the princess to slow down.

Once they were alone, Aslaug released Merewyn and crossed her arms over her breast. The latter stared at the floor, wiping her cheeks before she could embarrass herself further.

“I won’t have you running around and disturbing my household,” Aslaug snapped. “If you want to spend your free time weeping, screaming, and slamming doors, then I might as well sell you for some peace.”

Merewyn flinched at her words. The prospect of being sold to another household terrified her more than it ever had.

“I am sorry,” she said.

Aslaug continued to look at her. “Why do you shed tears over the priest?”

Merewyn snapped her head up. “How do you-?”

“I know many things,” Aslaug said dismissively. “And, I see what happens to you when you’re around him…” She paused before adding, “If you desire him so badly, then why do you not simply sleep with him?”

The frankness of her question made Merewyn’s jaw drop. She nearly refused to answer the princess, but there she stood, waiting. Defeated, Merewyn muttered, “He is a monk, my lady. I cannot do it.”

“Why?”

“He…” Merewyn paused, trying to remember her Norse vocabulary. “He takes… vow to not… um, feel woman…”

“Never to lie with a woman?”

Merewyn nodded.

Aslaug furrowed her brow. “What a foolish promise to make.”

“It is our way.”

The princess uncrossed her arms and shook her head, as if she were dealing with a stubborn child. Absently, she moved towards the bed, saying, “But, you do not deny that you want him.”

It was not a question. Merewyn remained silent and watched as Aslaug dropped onto the bed, eyeing her from across the room.

"You torment yourself because you believe that you have fallen for an untouchable man. You want him, but you will not allow yourself to go to him because you think that he is not yours.”

Merewyn nodded. “Yes, princess.”

The corners of Aslaug’s mouth twitched into what looked like a rueful grin. “No man is ever untouchable. If you want him, then you will have him. You need only to pursue him first.”

Thoughts and feelings raced through Merewyn’s mind, but she did not how to express them. How was she to tell her mistress that in England the men did the pursuing? How could she explain the nuances and complications of desiring a man who had denied himself women for most of his life?

Aslaug seemed to read her thoughts. “You doubt me, but I assure you, anything is possible.”

Perfectly disturbed, Merewyn merely said, “Yes, princess.”

“However you wish to deal with this,” Asluag continued, “do not make any more unnecessary disturbances in my house. Do you understand?”

“Yes, princess.”

With that, Merewyn’s mistress dismissed her. Once she was out in the corridor, the slave girl moved into an unoccupied cranny and stayed there for a moment. She felt perfectly disgusted with herself, but Aslaug’s words were enticing. Men of the cloth could and did become involved with women, and if Athelstan was like any other man, she could possibly seduce him.

She shook her head, chastising herself for entertaining such an idea. Clasping her hands together in front of her breast, she bowed her head and murmured, “God, I am lost and confused. I need a sign- what is your will?”

Silence filled the hallway. Nothing moved, nothing changed. Before the heaviness of despair could settled in her heart, Merewyn said fiercely, “If you love me, Lord, then show me a sign. What am I to do?”

Merewyn waited. She leaned against the wall, hands interlocked, her entire body tense. Her eyes darted about the corridor, searching, but nothing stirred. For perhaps the hundredth time since she had set foot upon the shores of Scandinavia, God was deaf to her prayers.


	12. Libertas (Freedom)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks for your patience and your kudos :) Your encouragement keeps me going! Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

It had been a day since Merewyn confronted Athelstan in the antechamber, and the memory of the incident refused to let him alone. Throughout the morning and well into the afternoon, Athelstan went over what happened again and again, though it did little to help him.

He did not fault her for being angry that he concealed his past from her. As he sat by the fire with a horn of ale, he chastised himself for not having told her sooner. She had been very open with him about her past, and he should have afforded her the same courtesy.

However, the magnitude of Merewyn’s anger had come as an unpleasant surprise. When he told her of his past, she looked as if she was about to faint. And then, she had run off, left him feeling confused, guilty, and hurt.

Athelstan sipped from his vessel and glanced around the main hall, almost hoping to see Merewyn. Some part of him wanted to find her, talk to her, and resolve this problem. But, another part of him was frightened to confront her for a number of reasons, the biggest being the very issue that Ragnar had brought up.

He had feigned innocence, but he had known exactly what Ragnar was talking about. Athelstan had seen the looks that Merewyn threw him when she thought he wasn’t looking; he had seen her blush in front of him too many times to not think anything of it; and there was also that time after they had seen each other on the beach…

The steward may have been more innocent than many adults in Kattegat, but he was no fool. He knew attraction when he saw it, and he knew it when he felt it. Merewyn was drawn to him, but his past as a monk made her embarrassed of her feelings.

After a while of dwelling, he got up from the fireplace and made his way to his room. As he shut the door, he was hit with the realization that he had never prayed to God, like he intended to. Merewyn’s breakdown two night ago had put it from his mind.

It had been a while since Athelstan prayed. He did not like to do in earshot of other people, and there was almost always somebody awake and moving around the house well into the night. And, despite what he told himself, he had begun to doubt in the God he was raised to worship. Still, perhaps a prayer was exactly what he needed to ease his distress.

He lit a fire and kneeled down beside his bed.  Resting his elbows on the pallet, he folded his hands and bowed his head. He waited until the familiar sense of serenity came over him before he spoke aloud.

“Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.”

Athelstan stopped. It was the first prayer that had come to his mind, but he had not intended to pray to the Virgin tonight. Nonetheless, he had already started, so he continued.

“Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

He paused when he heard scuffling outside his door. He waited with baited breath, and as soon as he was sure the passerby was gone, he continued.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

A knock at his door punctuated the final verse. He leapt to his feet and spun around, raising his hands as if he were about to be attacked. But, the door remained closed, and Athelstan could see a small pair of feet through the crack at the bottom, waiting in silent stillness. Once his battering heart was calmed, he opened the door.

Merewyn was standing on the other side. She was still wearing her apron, and her hair was bound up in a tight braid, and indication that she had just come from the kitchen. Her hands were folded in front of her, but she was fidgeting incessantly with her fingers.

“I am sorry to disturb you,” she said. “But, I was wondering if I could talk with you.”

She looked less tired than she did yesterday, but her eyes still betrayed a fatigued sadness. She reminded him of one of those statues of the Penitent Magdalene that once adorned the walls of the Lindisfarne abbey.

“Yes, of course. Come in,” he said, standing aside.

Merewyn stepped past him, and he shut the door behind her. She stood stiffly in the middle of the room, biting her lower lip as he moved around her.

"Would you like to sit?" Athelstan asked, gesturing to the bed.

Merewyn glanced at the bed and her eyes widened. He opened his mouth to apologize for the unintended meaning, but she cut him off with a shaky, "Yes."

They sat down next to each other on the pallet, taking care not to brush arms or knees. Athelstan watched her in silence for a moment, hoping that she would raise her head and speak to him immediately. Instead, she sat there quietly with her head bowed, perhaps working up the courage to say the first words.

"I'm sorry," she said at long last

"I am too," Athelstan replied.

She raised her head and looked at him. "I should have been kinder to you. The raid on Lindisfarne... It must have been a terrifying experience, and if you did not wish to speak of it, I should not have forced you."

Her eyes began to shimmer in the firelight, and Athelstan’s heart ached at the sight. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, but she was not finished her apology yet.

"I like to speak of England, but it is only because, until two nights ago, I refused to accept my position here. For you, perhaps it is better to live in the present than dwell in the past."

A lone tear escaped her eye and ran down her cheek. Athelstan cupped her cheek and wiped the tear away with his thumb. His conscience demanded to know why he was doing that, but he chose to ignore the indignant little voice in his head this time.

Merewyn scowled and rubbed her other eye vigorously.  She did not have to say anything, but Athelstan knew she was annoyed with herself. Clearly, crying had not been part of her plan. He let his hand drop from her face and asked, "Is that why you ran after we spoke in the antechamber?"

It was an unfair question. He knew the answer, but he wanted her to confirm it. Only she knew the truth of her own feelings.

Merewyn sniffed and shook her head. "No... I left because..."

She trailed off, but her eyes continued to speak to him. She was desperate to divulge something, but years of self-censorship had taken its toll on her. Athelstan maintained his composure, but her hesitation was driving him mad. His heart beat furiously in his chest, and he feared that she might hear it if she did not say anything soon.

Without taking her eyes off him, she murmured, "I’ve had enough, Athelstan. I'm exhausted, and I'm fed up of feeling this way..."

A cold sense of apprehension began to settle over him. "Feeling how?"

"Feeling guilty," she answered. "Feeling confused and frightened... I have felt like this for my entire life, and I am sick of it."

A stricken expression passed over her face. "Do you know that the man I married could be dead, and I do not care? In fact, I have caught myself thinking about how much freer I could be if he was dead."

Athelstan wished that her words would shock him, but he had seen how utterly trapped Merewyn felt. He was sad that she felt so stuck. He wanted her to think of another means of escape from her husband. But, he knew that English marriage laws did not work like that, and it did not surprise him at all that she had had these thoughts.

"I have felt so guilty, for this and many other things," she continued. Her voice was beginning to shake, and she looked close to tears again. Fighting them back, she grabbed his hand. "What is the matter with me, Athelstan? Why am I not good?"

The pallet was quivering. Merewyn's entire body was trembling. Before she could lose control of herself, Athelstan turned his body towards her and took her other hand. He bowed his head towards her and said, "You _are_ good, Merewyn. You have done nothing wrong."

She closed her eyes and exhaled heavily, gathering herself. She shifted her weight and rested her forehead against his. Hardly daring to believe what was happening, Athelstan closed his eyes and squeezed her hands. This was wrong. He knew he should not have been doing this, but he could barely hear the voice of reason in his mind over the rush in his ears.

"Athelstan, I..." Merewyn's eyes flew open. Her eyelashes tickled his face. "I ran from you yesterday because you told me you had been a monk."

He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, eliciting a soft gasp from her. "I know."

She inclined her head and brushed her nose against his, her breath washing over his lips as she murmured, "And, what are you now?"

Athelstan opened his eyes and was immediately caught in Merewyn's green gaze. He could think of nothing else to say except "I don't know" before he closed the gap between them.

He felt a shudder run through Merewyn’s body as he pressed his lips against hers. He grasped her hands tightly, praying that if he fell in his dizziness she would catch him. She gave him more than that, though. She freed one hand and brushed his bangs away from his face, letting her palm rest against the back of head. He felt her mouth part, an invitation that he accepted, muffling the soft moan that escaped her throat.

There was so much they could have done, so many unspoken wants and desires that they could have acted upon. But, it was late, they were tired, and years of self-denial had taught Athelstan to cool his blood and restrain himself. That is why he eventually pulled away and why he fought with all his might not to pull Merewyn back for another kiss. Instead, he listened to her sigh softly, looking into her eyes through a heavy lidded gaze, basking momentarily in what they had just done.

“Athelstan…”

“Mhm?”

“When the raiding party came upon us, I was in the town square, shopping at the market with Tova.”

He ran his hand up her arm. “I am so sorry.”

“But,” she interjected, “Eborard wasn’t with us. He was hunting in the forests by the estuary.”

Athelstan’s frowned. They had just shared something incredibly intimate, something that had been building for over a month, and now she wanted to talk about her husband? Not trusting himself to speak without sounding unpleasant, he merely nodded and let her continue.

“The Northmen arrived on that waterway…” She bit her lip and muttered, “There was no way Eborard and his small party could have survived Ragnar’s attack.”

Athelstan stared at her for a moment before the implication behind her words dawned on him. When she saw the look on his face, she rushed to explain herself.

“When Ragnar caught me and took me back to the boat, I saw blood- it was on the ground, and the trees, and there were discarded bows around the trail. There is little doubt in my mind now that my husband was killed.”

“Merewyn-” Athelstan began, but she cut him off.

“Please,” she said. “Please, do not think me an evil woman. I know it is a wicked thing to imagine, but I must be realistic.” She inhaled deeply and added, “Besides, what happened in England is in the past. This is my life now.” She gestured to the room. “I now live here, in Kattegat, and I serve Aslaug and her husband.”

Her eyes seemed to dance in the flickering candlelight, and Athelstan suddenly understood why she had been avoiding him all day yesterday: She had been coming to terms with her situation and her feelings. The thought of Merewyn finally accepting her place here had seemed an impossibility a few weeks ago, but some change had been affected within her. Athelstan could not help but to think back to the Winter Nights banquet earlier that week, and he wondered what could have forced her to confront her new reality…

“I’m glad you feel more comfortable here now,” Athelstan said finally.

Merewyn gave him a little smile and tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. The soft touch made Athelstan’s stomach twist.

“It is quite necessary for me to become more comfortable here,” she said, absentmindedly. “Death has parted me and the man I once married, and I am now a free woman.”


End file.
